Chapter 4

Her meandering footsteps drew near, grew louder, and then immediately began to get more distant. She was not my ally, but neither was she a loyal subject of the lord. Though the slave collar could induce pain when she disobeyed orders, it didn’t affect her free will. And even if she did see me walking through the halls, the chances of her reporting it to the lord were low. She would gain nothing from doing that, nor would she even know I wasn’t acting on the lord’s orders to begin with. I didn’t need to be particularly afraid of her. She wasn’t a sorcerer, either. Infinitely harmless. It must’ve been day now. Maybe she was doing some cleaning. I made a mental note of it, then waited until there were no more signs of her and resumed my exploration. After a few minutes of walking, I abruptly spotted a room with bookshelves in it at the end of the hallway. The room had a grand door. The interior was at least twice as large as the rooms I’d seen thus far, and it was filled with huge bookshelves and the smell of old paper. It was quiet; nobody was inside. The shelves were packed full of thick books, but even they didn’t provide enough space, for a few piles of books also lay on the floor. I ran my finger along a bookshelf. It didn’t have the dust accumulation of the rooms I’d visited already. Lou probably came here to clean it regularly. I couldn’t stay for long. I’d always liked books, even in my past life. I hadn’t had the time to read right before my death, but for a very long while, books were my only friend. Getting just a little bit excited, I scanned the spines of the books on the shelves. When I did, I found myself frowning. Unexpectedly, most of the books here were written in a different language—not Latisian, the one I knew. Were these some kind of magical grimoires? Or were they encoded in such a way that only a necromancer could understand them? I didn’t even know what language the words were written in. My excitement waned a bit, but I quickly reassured myself. I didn’t have enough time to read all the books here to start with. In fact, having too many options might have made this worse. My eyes flickered over the book spines. Then I spotted one written in Latisian. It was on old book. The title was The History and Dangers of the Abominable Undead. Struggling, I slid it out from its packed-in location, then flipped to a random page. The very first thing I saw was this sentence: “To be undead is to be cursed. The soul of an undead, violated by a necromancer, is the eternal prisoner of agony, its only release the end, induced via holy arts.” The unexpected passage made my lips curl into a smile. I felt like I’d just heard a dark joke. Could you blame me? If to be undead was to be cursed, and if my soul was supposed to be a prisoner to agony at this very moment, then what did that make my life, which had been far more painful than this? That pain, that omnipresent agony and suffering—only someone who had experienced it would ever understand it. Those days when the pain had been so overwhelming I couldn’t sleep. The waning number of visitors from one day to the next. The expressions of resignation on the faces of the holy mages charged with healing me—and the sense of powerlessness at knowing that my death was approaching. The blessed could never understand the pain of the unblessed. I hadn’t despaired over being turned into an undead, but I couldn’t stand to have my free will stolen from me. If I’d known in my lifetime that I’d be liberated from my pain upon becoming one, I’d have chosen the option without hesitation. Naturally, I had no grudge against the lord—against Horos Kamen—even if he was committing all sorts of taboos. This book won’t do me any good. I closed the tome, then forced it back in between the others on the shelf and decided to look for one that seemed more helpful. I brought several other tomes back with me safely to my own room. I didn’t see Lou on the way back. After closing the door, careful not to make any noise, I hid all the books except one in the lowest drawer on the shelf. As far as I knew, nobody ever opened the drawers in this room, so I probably didn’t need to worry about anyone finding them. Once I finished reading one, I could just take out the next. From what I’d witnessed, the library didn’t see much use. The farther into the bookshelves you got, the more dust had accumulated, and there were no signs of those books having been removed recently. The room seemed, if anything, to be geared toward storing books after reading. The one I’d chosen was an old encyclopedia of the undead, which had been in the very back of the rearmost bookshelf. I needed to learn about myself first. My knowledge of the undead amounted only to fairy tales and the lord’s mutterings. I had to fix that as soon as I could. Though there was no light, I could read the letters just fine. Flipping the pages slowly, I recalled those days engrossed in fairy tales on my sickbed, which made me deeply emotional. I needed strength. Not just physical strength—knowledge was power. And so my nighttime studies began. The small monkey magical beast, sporting longer arms than one would guess from its height, bounced off the top of a tree to attack me. I cut it down with my billhook, whose use I’d grown very familiar with. The intense stench of blood flew through the air in every direction, and then the forest was quiet again. The monkeys that had been observing from atop the tall trees, perhaps realizing they’d picked the wrong opponent, gave strange-sounding cries and disappeared into the woods with astonishing nimbleness. A body that could move freely. The sensation of disappearing life via my billhook. A strong sense of fulfillment came over me. When I’d first been resurrected, I’d thought that fulfillment was the rebound from not being able to move in life, but now, I’d learned it wasn’t my imagination at all. The living dead killed the living and accumulated “death.” The lord, standing behind me with his arms folded imposingly, briefly inspected the monkey’s remains before turning to me. “End, have you…grown stronger?” “……” I stood there without saying a word. I hadn’t been ordered to answer him. Several months had passed since my revival. I’d gotten well accustomed to this freely moving body, and thanks to our daily monster-hunting in the forest, I’d learned how to predict the monsters’ movements to an extent. At the beginning, I’d used so much power that its recoil was enough to destroy my body; now I could hold back and still kill the beasts. The number of times the lord had to heal me had decreased as well. At first, I’d been doing my absolute best to make sure he didn’t sense anything out of the ordinary, but battle had truly gotten easier for me, and since I didn’t know what the lord would do if he felt like nothing was ever changing, it was tricky to make the adjustment. I enjoyed moving my body. I enjoyed the running, the jumping, the learning. And above all… I enjoyed living. I hadn’t obtained complete freedom yet. I still had to remain vigilant. But in these few months, I’d gotten used to being an undead and had the room to appreciate the situation. “Hmm… Still a flesh-man… You’ve already accumulated a considerable number of kills. I would have assumed you’d become a ghoul by now…” The lord walked over in front of me, then inspected my arms and body with his extremely bony fingers. I tolerated the sensation of it with an impassive expression. It had been some time since I’d acquired my study materials. I’d learned much more about the undead than I’d known when I was alive. The lord’s collection contained many books I couldn’t read, but that didn’t keep me from picking up the fundamentals. I could already comprehend most of what the lord was saying. Unlike living creatures, the undead did not mature as time passed. However, accumulating the negative energy produced when living creatures died (expressed simply as “the power of death”) strengthened our existence and caused us to mutate. Even those already dead were not living in the prison of stopped time. Books called it a rank mutation. According to those books, the undead—with a few exceptions—were the result of a curse cast by a necromancer. I was a moving corpse whom the necromancer had hexed and altered the properties of. And embedded within that curse was an evolutionary system. By obeying its master and accumulating negative energy, a flesh-man who had been resurrected by a necromancer’s evil curse would acquire a new ego and become a more powerful undead. Flesh-men were one of the starting points in this evolutionary process. The reason the lord took me out hunting every day without fail, when he was always so engrossed in his daily research that he never even left his room for food, was to have me accumulate the power of death and make me into a stronger undead. And it seemed I had a predecessor. That one, who had accumulated death by the lord’s hands like I was now, had mutated from a flesh-man into a ghoul. Then, on the lord’s orders, it had gone out hunting on its own where it was eaten by a magical beast in the forest and died. That was why the lord always stayed with me. The lord’s eyes had a dull glimmer. He looked up at me with those eyes, so dark as to even rival those of the undead, and tilted his head. “I see the ego is late to sprout… That is fine. It won’t be a problem right now.” Yes. No problem at all. He hadn’t found out. Just a little longer, and I’d be able to worm my way out of this while still in my current state. The lord was a powerful sorcerer, but he had never seen through my act. Flesh-men weren’t supposed to have egos to begin with. There wasn’t a single record of one who retained the memories from when they were alive. I didn’t know why I’d kept my ego and memories when other flesh-men hadn’t, but since flesh-men weren’t supposed to be self-aware, the lord—an expert on the subject—had constant faith in me. Hunting with the lord was extremely convenient; it allowed me to hone my powers safely. If he was to realize I had become self-aware, the lord would change his orders. He would at least command me not to hurt him—or something along those lines. All I needed was to bide my time. The lord’s curse was what kept me moving. But I already knew something: Once cast, the curse of an undead would never disappear, even if its caster died. “End, bring that monkey’s remains back to the mansion.” The same command as always. I picked up the corpse by its still-bleeding arm and followed the lord. The pungent smells of beasts and blood. The fragrant scent of the corpse. Dark blood dripped from the creature’s deep, gaping wounds. I thought I felt something hot writhing within my body. Recently, I’d been getting hungry. My long-lost appetite was difficult to endure, burning within me like a flame. As always, after obeying orders and being returned to the morgue, I resumed my activities. It had already been over a month since I’d acquired an appetite. And that was when I’d realized that my very existence had changed. Food, sleep, sex—flesh-men had nothing to do with these human desires, but it was a different story for undead of higher ranks. By that time, I’d already learned a bit about the undead, so I knew immediately these desires were due to a rank mutation. My appearance hadn’t changed much at all, but after taking so many lives, my existence had. I’d evolved from a flesh-man into a being called a ghoul. My newly acquired appetite was proof that my very essence had shifted to a higher-order variety. Unlike flesh-men, ghouls had a degree of self-awareness as well as the intelligence of a human baby. The large quantities of negative energy they had accumulated would strengthen their physical body as well, but intelligence was the biggest thing that set the two apart. Since I’d had self-awareness and memories from the outset, to me, all I’d gotten was a little bit of extra strength and a special ability. I wasn’t sure if it was worth the downside of wanting to eat, but I welcomed the change nonetheless. An appetite. A human urge. Being a flesh-man had been convenient, but for me, there was value in gaining such desires in exchange for that convenience. I’d almost never been able to eat a real meal while I was still alive. I never felt hungry, either. There was no room for that feeling. My appetite was another one of the things I’d lost. Ghouls fed on meat—the flesh of corpses. In that sense, the morgue was equivalent to a food pantry in my eyes. Even those stomach-churning dead-body smells were no more than fragrant odors to me. But it wouldn’t be good to eat the dead bodies in question. I felt no greater aversion to eating a corpse than I had when I first killed a magical beast. My more human emotions wanted to avoid it, of course, but I wouldn’t hesitate if my life depended on it. But if there were fewer corpses—that is, research specimens—in here, even the lord, who wasn’t very cautious of me at this stage, would get suspicious. The lord didn’t know I’d become a ghoul, but he assumed I would soon. And it was widely known that ghouls possessed intelligence and self-awareness. The sense of starvation was excruciating. If I didn’t stay alert, I’d start wanting to nibble on nearby corpses. I had to find some way to fulfill the urge before my instincts got the better of me. Keeping the emotions that sprung up at bay along with my empty stomach, I shed my tattered clothes and, quieting my footsteps, exited the morgue. I slipped past the skeleton knights on security patrol and left through the mansion’s entrance. The moment I opened the door, I felt a warm, damp breeze brush my cheek. Thick clouds of deep indigo obscured the night sky. I saw before me a large courtyard and a gate. Several dozen ferocious flesh-beasts were in the courtyard, on guard against enemies from the outside. Most of them had been born in the forest—pitiful beings, massacred and resurrected by the lord, just like my predecessor and me. An undead nightwolf caught a whiff of my scent and turned its head toward me. At a glance, it was the same as the nightwolves that lived in the forest, but its eyes were shockingly vacant. The nightwolf twitched its nose briefly before leaving me alone, realizing I was the flesh-man always with the lord. It acted exactly how the books had described: like a puppet that only responded to commands. Each time I witnessed such behavior, I reflected on my good fortune to not have ended up like that—and had a powerful reaffirmation of the fact that I absolutely couldn’t let that happen to me. Feeling the night’s breeze against my skin, I approached the gate, an iron fence several meters high that encircled the mansion. Not only a physical obstacle, it was apparently enchanted with a magical field, but since I was designated as an ally, it didn’t have any effect on me. The gate was shut with a giant lock and chain, and only the lord had the key for it. I ignored the entrance and walked over to it, grabbed the fence with both hands, and climbed it. I never could have supported my weight with my hands in my lifetime, but it was easy now that I’d gathered so much negative energy. When I reached the top and its spear-like spikes, I grabbed one of them and flung myself over in a front flip. My vision spun. I landed on all fours. Letting the stunning impact wash through me, I slowly stood up. My movements weren’t hampered—and unlike flesh-men, the bodies of ghouls could regenerate smaller wounds. At first, I’d been nervous about it, but now I could go out for food as casually as if I was going for a walk. And so, without faltering, I traveled into the chattering darkness of the deep forest. I was alone now. Unlike when the lord accompanied me, I could advance at my own pace. Conversely, I didn’t have the lord’s backup, but the creatures in this forest were no match for me at this point. I didn’t have my billhook, but I didn’t need it. I focused, and a crackling sound came from the fingers on my right hand. My fingertips were producing heat. All five fingers then extended and sharpened like knives. This was one of the special abilities I’d gained since becoming a ghoul: a power unpretentiously called Sharpen Nails. Keeping the now-heated and extended claws hidden in my palm, I dashed through the darkness. The smell of beasts. The smell of the wind. A powerful hunger that set the back of my mind ablaze. They all sharpened my senses. I found a target right away: a dark mass, visibly protruding from the tall grasses between two trees. It was around two meters tall and likely quadrupedal, so if it stood on two legs, I probably would have had to look up at it. However, that giant figure, which was a few sizes larger than even me, looked like nothing but prey. I lowered my stance and ran at full speed. My starved mind surged with delight from moving my body as freely as I desired. The wind shifted the shrubs, leaving behind the screeching cries of the insects. My target, seeming to have noticed my approach, tried to turn to face me, but as large as it was, it couldn’t make sudden directional changes in this forest so overgrown with trees and foliage. And then, using my whole body as a spring, I hurled myself high into the air. My head was under me, my legs above. The world spun around me. Just below, the dark figure turned around. Pitch-black fur. Bloodred eyes. Developed muscles, powerful and rippling, clear even at a glance. A bear-type magical beast: what the lord called a nightbear. Tougher than nightwolves and the type of magical beast I’d fought in my first battle. But this time, it was no child. That, however, didn’t matter. I stretched my arm out as I passed by it, extending my claws. Now several centimeters longer than usual, the nails’ tips dealt tiny wounds to the creature’s fur-covered skull. Despite the tough pelt and solid bone protecting its brain, the skull split ever so slightly, sending fresh blood flying. The beast howled. As I landed, I bent over, then slid right up to its huge frame. I…was no longer a corpse who did nothing but move. In that moment, I was a beast—one that surpassed nightbears. And I was a beast with intelligence. A demon. My nails, lengthened via Sharpen Nails, were sharper than average swords. Ghouls used them to tear asunder the flesh of corpses and devour them. The intense odor of beasts—and the burning appetite it induced. I swung a straight, open hand right into the nightbear’s chest. Its armor of fur, its armor of muscle, its bones—a ghoul’s titanic strength and bladed nails could easily smash all of it. The nightbear’s massive body spasmed, and its roaring immediately ceased. All that was left was the quiet forest, like an empty void. The feel and heat of the flesh wrapped around my hand. As I basked in the satisfaction surging through me, I pulled my hand out. The squelching crack of blood vessels bursting. The source of life, still pulsating in my hand: a giant heart. The overwhelming odor of blood, filling my senses—the stench of death. All of those only whetted my appetite further. As I ripped it out, I took a few steps back. And then, as though it had been waiting, the magical beast’s body collapsed to the ground. It had died. But the heart I’d taken was still beating. I could sense life from its unreliable pulse. I let out a heavy, hot breath, as though I’d taken ill with fever. Even though an undead like me would never fall ill. Or require breathing at all. I held up the heart, which glistened with blood, then ran my tongue over the long-awaited prize. The blood stained my body, but there was no need to worry about it. That was why I’d stripped off my clothing before coming here. My tongue touched it. That alone sent a shock through my brain. The taste, the smell, the touch—my body desired it all. There was no reason to have any sense of aversion to it. It was a necessity for me. For I was no longer human. As that fact came to mind once again—a reality I’d keenly felt many times since becoming an undead—I madly began to devour the jewellike heart. Power filled me. How long had it been since I had received this new life? The more days that passed, the greater the doubt in the lord’s eyes became when he directed his gaze to me. “Still no mutation… Hmm… I’ve used him so much, and yet…” We were back in the laboratory. With our daily hunt complete, the lord let out a groan and looked at me, still continuing my mindless puppet act. Averages existed in all things. As necromancy was a forbidden magic, research on it had not progressed very far, but from the books I’d checked, flesh-men generally mutated to their next form of existence within six months to a year. Of course, there were individual differences. Rank mutation would never occur if an undead was locked in a room without accumulating any death, and conversely, there were examples of undead created during large-scale wars having an extremely short time before mutation. But in my case, I’d had the lord’s steadfast protection every day and thus had kept on gathering death. It was difficult to imagine this taking longer than average. I doubted a year had passed since my rebirth. It hadn’t even been that long after I’d started feeling an appetite, either. But it seemed it was more than enough time for him to sense that something was wrong. The lord touched my arm with his bone-like fingers. He peered into my eyes, then incanted some sort of spell. I didn’t know what it was for, but it was probably a type of necromancy. Strength overflowed in my body. My limbs became hot, and an intense sensation shot through me, almost like I was expanding. But I ignored the pressing impulses and maintained my silence. “It…isn’t a lack of mana? Is it thought that’s lacking, then?” He frowned and looked up at me bitterly. The lord was an excellent sorcerer. That was clear just from the fact that he’d built a mansion so deep in a forest overrun with vicious magical beasts—and easy to imagine given the size of his book collection and the countless corpses he’d gathered. But his deep knowledge of that very necromancy trapped him within the realm of common sense. To begin with, flesh-men were the lowest rank of undead. The main obstacle to their creation was the requirement of a fresh corpse, but as long as one had that, one could create them with ease. They were puppets of flesh, incredibly weak, doing nothing but following orders. They had no ego and would never lift so much as a finger without a command from their master. The lord had probably produced many flesh-men in the past. My predecessor must have been average, and its rank mutation had likely been easy to see. My predecessor suddenly gained intelligence. According to what I’d read, an undead followed one of two main paths after mutating into a ghoul: They would either understand the situation and submit or fail to understand the situation and fiercely resist. I, on the other hand, hadn’t reacted at all. It was precisely because the lord had such intimate knowledge of rank mutations that he hadn’t yet grasped what was happening with me. He didn’t know how to determine whether an incredibly talented flesh-man like me had actually mutated. Even as he recognized that I’d accumulated negative energy and grown more powerful for it, his suspicions never took root. A big part of it was probably that flesh-men and ghouls didn’t look very different on the outside. Inside, one would definitely change, but he’d apparently forgotten the most efficient way of telling the difference. If I were him, I would have given me this order, just to be sure: “Have you mutated? Answer truthfully.” I was absolutely bound to the lord’s commands. That hadn’t changed, even after my mutation. If the lord ever actually asked a question like that, I would be forced to submit, but he didn’t. He knew a flesh-man’s natural characteristics too well for that. To him, I was an object—one that would not do anything unexpected. After patting me down to check my physical condition, he frowned, then called out in a dissatisfied tone, “Lou, bring a knife.” Soft footsteps stopped in front of the laboratory, and after a short moment of silent hesitation, the door creaked open. Lou entered, fear plain in her expression. She was petite and had black hair. Her clothing was dirty, and her small frame so thin that one might expect her to collapse at any moment. She looked younger than me, probably because she was malnourished, but from things the lord had said, I knew she’d been his slave for many years. Around her neck was a magical black collar—proof of her enslavement. Her eyes were sunken in almost as much as an undead’s, and her lips were cracked and parched. If I hadn’t known any better, I would have mistaken her for a flesh-man. This wasn’t the first time we’d seen each other. Lou’s role involved the more delicate tasks not suited for the undead: helping with research, seeing to the lord’s needs, things of that nature. She cleaned the mansion, made food, and kept the books in order. It was incredibly easy to see her coming, since she carried a light with her when she roamed the halls. Unlike the lord, however, she walked around the mansion at random intervals, so I’d accidentally encountered her several times during my explorations. However…neither of us had any interest in the other. Flesh-men had no will, and the same was true of slaves. It was possible Lou feared the lord considerably more than I did. And there was fear in her eyes when she looked at me, too. She had a mind but not a will. She only did what the lord ordered. “The knife.” At the lord’s words, Lou, seeming flustered, pulled a knife from her pocket and approached. He took the proffered knife, then casually struck Lou in the head. “Faster next time, trash.” In contrast to his dismissive tone, the lord’s eyes held no anger. He was probably just frustrated. Even if he wasn’t, though, he didn’t treat her as anything but a slave. Lou crumpled. The lord cracked the bones in his hand, then stabbed the knife into my right arm. A very dull pain, maybe one-hundredth of the actual pain of being stabbed, ran through my arm. That, too, was proof that a rank mutation had occurred. To be undead was a curse. Once nothing more than a moving corpse, I was drawing closer to a more blasphemous, more accursed existence. And that would bring with it more than just advantages. A walking dead would regain their desires, their intelligence, and their pain. And they would acquire immense power. It was crueler than my time as a flesh-man, when I hadn’t felt any pain, but it was still nothing compared to when I’d been alive. Almost no blood flowed from the wound. It probably wasn’t circulating yet. But according to the books, stronger undead shed blood like humans. The lord twisted the knife in the wound as if to confirm that fact. I rode out the continuous pain without letting it show on my face. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts—it doesn’t hurt. It…doesn’t hurt. The lord slowly removed the knife. His eyes were still on me as he gave Lou, who was on the floor, a forceful command. “…Still just a flesh-man… You! If his wound changes, report it to me.” “Ah… Ugh…” “Answer me!” “Ghh…” The sounds of violence dominated my surroundings. Sorcerers were said to make their bodies stronger using mana. The lord’s body looked like just skin and bones, but it seemed to have quite a bit of strength to it regardless. Lou, kicked in the solar plexus, bounded across the floor like a toy ball. I simply watched, not feeling any emotion in particular. The knife wound that the lord had stabbed me with ached. Whenever I was injured in the forest, the lord always healed me with magic. Flesh-men didn’t have regenerative abilities, so if he wanted to use one for long periods of time, he would have to do the healing himself. As for the progression of wounds, one of the big differences between flesh-men and ghouls was the presence of a regenerative ability. The lord seemed to be trying to determine if I had mutated by looking at factors other than my self-awareness. I had figured this moment would come at some point. But…he was sloppy. Whatever kind of method he wanted to use to figure it out, saying it in front of me rendered it meaningless. After being returned to the morgue as usual, I got to work. I rolled up my sleeve and inspected the wound. A ghoul’s regenerative abilities were higher than those of humans, and my wound had already begun to mend itself. It wouldn’t immediately heal as it did with healing magic, but one of this degree would heal in less than a day. Shifting into higher undead forms apparently strengthened the regenerative ability as well. It was fortuitous that I was still only at the ghoul stage. Lifting my left hand, I slowly changed the tips of my nails into blades. Their tips were no less sharp than the knife the lord had used to gouge a hole in me. To reinforce the wound that had remained there, I stabbed my nails into my arm. Pain gradually radiated from the wound, causing my pulse to skyrocket. This certainly wasn’t any more painful than being stabbed with a knife earlier. Inflicting harm on myself, however…was a first for me. Since I’d lacked a properly working body for as long as I could remember, I’d never fathomed being capable of intentionally injuring myself. Though I could shed no physical tears, my very spirit wept. I felt an intense ache in the back of my mind, but I smothered it. This was…necessary. I would kill any who bound me. Horos Kamen, who held authority over me, was someone I needed to kill one day. He was a terrible man. I didn’t know his objective, but he probably didn’t think of me as anything but a lesser class of slave. Now was when I had to bide my time. I’d do anything to create an opportunity. The lord was strong, and he had absolute control over me. I couldn’t defeat him just yet—but that didn’t mean no undead had ever succeeded in turning on their lord. According to the books I’d read, there were several records of undead rebelling against their masters. The lord still hadn’t put any more than minimal restrictions on me. If this situation continued, and if I became an even stronger undead… It was a long shot, but I had a chance at victory. He was absolute, but he was not omnipotent. I scraped my nails through the wound as if to underscore my determination. The wound’s shape would be somewhat different than when the knife had gouged it, but he wouldn’t notice the slight variation. After confirming the wound had gotten larger, I removed my nails from it and put them in my mouth. Moving my tongue, I licked the blood and flesh off. I felt nothing from my own flesh and blood, not even any taste, even though I now considered the hearts of magical beasts delicious. But it would be an issue if he noticed my fingers were dirty. As I was licking the stains from them, I suddenly heard a noise. I looked in front of me. When did she enter? I hadn’t noticed at all. Lou was there, in the corner of the room, watching me in shock. She had bruises around her eyes, and her lips were red and swollen. The life in her face was very faint, but her gaze was doubtlessly on my fingers, which were still in my mouth. Our eyes met. Before I could say anything, Lou scrambled out like a frightened rabbit. I’d messed up. I’d been seen. Even a slave like her could tell that my actions had been unnatural. I nearly broke out in a run but stopped myself just in time. I couldn’t chase her—then the lord would certainly notice. What would I have done upon catching her anyway? Persuade her? Did I really think I could manage that? I was an undead. An undead created by the sorcerer Horos Kamen. She would never, ever trust me. I definitely wouldn’t if I were in her position. Which meant…I didn’t need to chase her. The worst thing that could happen was the lord catching sight of me as I pursued her. After all, he had never given me any orders to do so. I steadied my breath. Not a drop of blood remained on my fingertips. There was a flash of light followed by a cry like ripping cloth that echoed through the mansion. Lou flew across the room, ramming into one of the corpses on the stone tables. She’d been hit with offensive magic. That was the first time I’d ever seen someone get knocked off their feet. The lord’s expression was the same as always. His eyebrows hadn’t moved, nor had his cheeks drawn back—but behind his cunning eyes smoldered a definite anger. “Lou, you…deceived me? I thought I told you to tell me if his wound changed.” “…!” Lou couldn’t answer him because of the impact of her fall. The lord stepped on her sprawled hand as she lay limp on the ground. “I don’t recall telling you to lie.” She had reported me. But of the two of us, it appeared the lord had chosen to trust me instead. And that made sense. He was confident in his own necromancy. The words of a slave—one who was considered to have almost no actual value—weren’t even worth consideration. Especially not when they sounded this ridiculous. I’d known that. That was why I’d let her escape. I watched them carefully. This wasn’t the first time I’d seen the lord treating Lou like this. Lou may have dreamed that reporting my strange behavior faithfully would loosen the lord up and improve his treatment of her. Perhaps she hadn’t foreseen this outcome—or she hadn’t expected it. If I were her, I definitely never would have done what she had. If she was willing to gamble on such an incredibly tiny hope, her despair wasn’t nearly deep enough. Slaves weren’t ever allowed to object. After kicking Lou several times, the lord hoisted her up by the back of her neck and brought her over to me. I remained completely motionless. A small drop of darkened red blood fell from Lou’s lips—maybe the inside of her mouth had been cut. I felt my expression nearly light up for an instant at the fragrance coming off that drop, but I quickly endeavored to remain impassive. Fortunately, it didn’t seem like the lord had noticed, since he appeared to be concentrating on punishing his slave. “You, trash—what was it that changed about End? Say it again.” “Ah…uh…” The lord’s eyes, and Lou’s empty gaze, turned to my wound. It was the very same wound as the one the lord had inflicted on me. To be precise, it had changed, but the lord wasn’t looking at it that carefully. “End. Raise your arm—so that we can both see the wound clearly.” I lifted my arm as ordered. My wound was laid bare in the dim darkness, under the light of only a few candles. The wound, which would have healed had I been a ghoul, evidently remained. “Lou, I’ll ask again. His wound—what did you say happened to it?” “Ghh… Mas…ter… He…,” came the inarticulate voice. The lord dramatically looked back at me. “You see, End… She says you dug out your own wound. Heh-heh-heh. Is that…the truth?” Yes. The answer is yes. But I didn’t respond. I had to properly follow orders. If he wanted me to respond, then he needed to command me to answer. He hadn’t. Thus, I had no duty to do so. That was the loophole I was allowed to exploit in the absolute ruler, because I possessed intelligence. The lord watched me for a few seconds, but he seemed to have come to his own conclusion already. His eyes turned quickly back to Lou. Her shoulders gave a start. Blanching, she argued, spittle flying: “M-Master… This man, he’s…lying…” “Heh-heh-heh. I don’t believe I told you this, Lou, slave that you are…but the undead are unconditionally obedient to their casters!!” The lord gave a shrill laugh as he threw Lou to the floor. I watched with my arm still raised. After all, he hadn’t ordered me to lower it. For a loyal flesh-man who could do nothing but follow orders, it was only natural. “Hmm? Did you think I’d treat you better if you reported an abnormality? You thought, with your unlearned, useless mind, that you could deceive me?” A poor, loyal slave who reported an abnormality to her master—only to find that her master didn’t trust her. Actions spoke louder than words. Or perhaps that depended on the master’s personality as well. If only she’d stayed silent, she wouldn’t have been punished…but I had no intention of pitying her. She could’ve robbed me of my freedom. Was the reason I lacked even a shred of compassion—was it because I was a cruel person? “Ah… Uh… He… Before, the books… And—that’s right! The food, too—” “Silence! You are trash, lower even than a corpse!” It was true that I’d allowed Lou to see me acting strange on several occasions. But it had been a mistake for her to speak up about them. If something had been out of the ordinary, she had to mention it immediately, or there was no way she would be believed. The lord was right—Lou’s mind was nothing if not useless. For a few minutes, the only sounds being produced were those of punches and cries. Eventually, tired of executing the beating, the lord spat his next words to Lou as she lay on the ground facedown, unmoving: “You are mere fodder. But the next time you report a lie, I will scatter your living flesh and send your soul into eternal suffering.” His voice had weight behind it. The sound of truth. A necromancer. At the words of this soul-defiling sorcerer hated by all, Lou, who lay on the ground like a corpse, twitched. Finally, the lord looked in my direction. “End, you may lower your arm.” You may lower it. It wasn’t a command, so I didn’t have a duty to obey. But I was a loyal flesh-man, so I lowered my arm. The lord watched me do so, then snorted, dissatisfied somehow, and healed my wound. He’d probably figured that since he’d left it for a day, and it hadn’t changed, it was pointless. I’d been able to endure it, but the pain had had me at my wit’s end, so I was relieved, though I didn’t show it. Thanks to you, Lou. “Lou, put this room back in order. The corpses in here are worth more than a mere slave I purchased for a single gold coin.” One gold coin? I wonder how much I cost him. I’d never heard of anyone buying up corpses, but I’d probably been more than a gold coin. The lord had chosen me from many others, after all, to serve as his protector. The lord exited the morgue. Only Lou remained. She still lay facedown and showed no signs of getting up. But it didn’t look like she was dead. I could clearly hear faint breathing. Had the lord held back? But it was worrying. She was on my side—our positions were different, but she was almost like a colleague. And fallen colleagues needed to be helped. The lord hadn’t ordered me not to move, so I gave a big stretch and knelt by Lou’s side, remaining cautious in case the lord changed his mind and came back. This incident was due to my lack of attentiveness. I wouldn’t make the same mistake again. Lou lifted her face. Her unfocused eyes followed me. I ran a finger through Lou’s drops of blood on the floor, then theatrically put my finger into my mouth and licked it. That was when I learned just how demonic a person looked when truly surprised. But it made no difference. The lord doesn’t seem very trusting to begin with, but he’ll never, ever listen to you. I was in a much better position with my newfound mutation, even if I ran the risk of being found out and losing my freedom as a result. However, I felt that I was drawing closer to the time I would need to revolt. Once the lord had doubts, they would continue to grow stronger, little by little. The lord had declared Lou’s accusation a lie, but deep down, her words would be pricking him like little thorns. What I needed to do was seize the most opportune moment. I decided to stop going to the library for books night after night. I doubted Lord Horos would listen to anything the slave said right now, and Lou wouldn’t change, but I figured the more possibilities I squashed, the better. I already had the minimum requisite knowledge. There was no doubt that, to Lou, I was just as troubling to have around as the lord. The lord began taking me on longer hunts, and when he brought me into the forest, he commanded me to hunt much stronger magical beasts. That command was convenient for me, too. In the unlikely event that I sustained any injuries from sneaking out for food that didn’t fully regenerate, the lord would know something was off, but during the day, I could have the lord heal me. I would one day need to defeat the tyrant, but at the same time, he was an irreplaceably heartening companion. My designs bore fruit, and I grew more powerful by the day, but I simultaneously felt an unease welling within me. I couldn’t see through the lord entirely. He had no openings. I didn’t know what he could and couldn’t do. It did unsettle me that I didn’t know the reason he lived in this kind of forest, too, but his magic was completely outside my knowledge. I couldn’t read his spells, and I hadn’t obtained any detailed information from the books, either. To ensure my safety, I wanted to attain even more power and only challenge him when I was sure I’d be able to win…but apparently it took years for a ghoul to reach the next rank mutation. Regardless of anything else, waiting for that wouldn’t be realistic. And besides, no matter how strong I became, the lord still had absolute power to command me. One order not to attack him, and it would all be over. The only way I’d ever win against him would be to strike, bringing him into a situation in which he wasn’t able to command me. Undead were strong. I was far more physically capable than an adult man at this point, and I had regenerative abilities, too. The lord hadn’t ordered me not to harm him, so I could even attack him from behind. I doubted even the most powerful sorcerer would emerge unscathed from my nails, which could slash through the sturdy neck bones of magical beasts. Failure, however, was not an option. If I didn’t kill him in one strike, he would bind me with a command, and then my second life would be crushed like the first. That was more difficult for me to accept even than being confined to a bed. What I needed was patience. Strength. Repeating that to myself, I suppressed my anxiety and waited for my chance. I spent night after night obeying the wicked sorcerer’s commands to hunt, eluding the slave, and searching for a vulnerability in the lord. At first, having obtained a body that could move properly had been enough to satisfy me, but learning that it was a false freedom only made me desire true freedom even more. People probably called this greed. Freedom—that simple word was even sweeter than the flesh of the beasts I tore through. And it was at a time like that when a guest of the lord’s brought new information that would cause the situation to evolve. Lou and the lord were the only ones who lived in this mansion, but the lord had other acquaintances. It must have been difficult for even a wicked necromancer to live fully isolated from human society. The man, who came once or twice a month accompanied by bodyguards, said his name was Hak. He was of short stature and wore a ten-gallon hat that was always slightly dirty. Just to myself, I’d been calling him Corpse-Bringer Hak. As the moniker would imply, he would cross here through the forest with a coffin. The lord’s skeletons wouldn’t attack him when he visited—he was their sole exception. I didn’t know the details of their relationship, but Hak’s role was to supply necessities and corpses. After providing the lord with food and other items, as well as fresh corpses he dug out from who knew where, he received money and skeletons in payment. From their conversations, I’d only gleaned that he was apparently buying the skeletons to serve as combat personnel. Not just any skeletons, either—he was very selective in his choices, and he only picked the powerful ones who had collected much death. It was taboo to make use of the undead. There was little doubt the man was not a good person. Usually, I wasn’t present for their dealings, but unusually, the lord had summoned me here this time. In the seldom-used reception room were Hak, his expression a mixture of mild cunning and amiability, and his bodyguards, who were all fully armed and looked to be very good at violent things. Hak’s eyes widened. His expression very curious, he said, “Oh… So it did survive. As one who died of disease, I thought it would have died right away.” “The corpses of nobility truly are different somehow,” the lord replied, staring straight at me. Whatever he was thinking, it was likely wrong. I’d survived this long out of my intense thirst for life and nothing more. And that thirst, which had dominated me immediately upon regaining consciousness, had never waned in the slightest, despite how I’d gained a degree of strength. In fact, I could swear it had only gotten stronger. It was like…an impulse, setting my soul ablaze, if I had to put it into words. A deep, fierce emotion I’d never had the chance to feel back in my previous life, which I’d spent waiting to die. That must have been the one big difference between the other undead and me. Without letting any of that show on my face, however, I just looked down at the lord quietly. The lord’s clouded eyes seemed to be gauging my intelligence. But it was probably only an illusion. If he really believed I was intelligent, he’d have given me a concrete order. “Are there any more corpses of nobles I could acquire?” he asked the corpse bringer. “Please, sir. They may be dead, but you won’t find many people eccentric enough to try to sell the bodies of their own kin.” “Still, I acquired one. The corpse of End came from—” Hak’s face twisted at the lord’s short words. In an almost criticizing tone, he said, “We promised never to discuss where the corpses come from. Someone coincidentally wanted to sell the remains of a family member. I brought the idea to you, Lord Horos, and you made the decision to buy it yourself. That was our transaction.” “…I know. He was bedridden…but I suppose that’s irrelevant. And he showed no signs of physical training.”