Ambrose counted the gold piece by piece, then pulled out a sheet of parchnt, wrote out the contract in full, and nailed it to the tavern's bulletin board for public record.
Only after all these formalities did he turn to the paladin and say, calm as could be, "Go on, then. Cast your Detect Evil."
The paladin warned, "If you use magic to resist detection, that counts as a breach of contract."
Ambrose replied pleasantly, "If it makes you feel better, you may seal my mana first."
The paladin shook his head. There was no need for that—he would know if the spell were tampered with. Truth be told, Ambrose's composure was so perfect that the paladin almost believed he truly had nothing to hide.
The holy light flared and washed over Ambrose.
Detect Evil produced a color. Pure souls glowed in flawless white, while corrupted ones bore dark stains or a faint crimson hue. The more wicked the soul, the darker the light.
For ordinary folk, a few fingertip-sized shadows might appear: greedy thoughts and minor desires, nothing explicit.
Cultists of dark gods, however, would be stained in darkness and steeped in spiritual filth.
When the spell touched Ambrose, a dense, suffocating darkness erupted and swallowed him whole.
Harvey: ???
The paladin: !!!
The tavern patrons: ?!
......
Everyone thought they were hallucinating. That much darkness? Not even cultists radiated evil like this. Had the paladin just pinged a god of darkness himself?
The paladin recovered first, roaring, "You're an undead!"
Indeed, aside from dark gods themselves, only the undead could yield such a result.
It wasn't a matter of deed, but of nature. The undead were antithetical to the living, evil by their very existence alone.
So all undead were pure black, without exception.
Ambrose rely waved a hand, dispelling the shadows, and said with an unbothered smile, "I'll be taking that five thousand gold, then."
The paladin's fury was nearly tangible. His sword rang free of its sheath, radiant with holy light.
This was Sacred Slash, the signature technique of paladins.
One strike, and most undead would turn to dust.
"Filthy undead," the paladin growled. "You've no right to that gold."
Ambrose pointed casually toward the contract on the wall.
"It says here these coins are my moral compensation for accepting the risk of your Detect Evil. It never said anything about a required outco. My identity as an undead is public now. Shouldn't my tarnished reputation deserve paynt?"
The tavern burst into performative outrage.
"Yeah! Disgusting undead scum!"
"Right! Bag of bones! Who'd drink with that thing?"
"Down with the undead! Glory to the Light!"
"I can't believe I was drinking in the sa bar as an undead! I'm gonna hurl!"
......
Their overacting caused the paladin's grip on his sword to tremble, as if he were about to burst in outrage.
Ambrose shrugged and spread his hands.
"You see? My reputation's ruined already. The money's justified."
"Despicable! Shaless!"
That was all the paladin could manage. Noble upbringing had its limits—it left him painfully short on insults. Ambrose was entirely unbothered.
Just as the paladin looked ready to swing, Harvey hurried over. "Sir, it's not a cri to be an undead in Alkhemia. But cleansing one would be. You'd be breaking the law."
Harvey gave a subtle glance around. The paladin belatedly saw what awaited him.
Two lizardn warriors at the nearest table had already gripped their axe hafts. A drow in the corner was calmly loading a crossbow. Even the dwarf bard, who'd been caterwauling minutes ago, had set aside his lute and drawn a dagger. Behind the bar, the orcish barkeep lined up empty bottles within throwing distance.
There were enemies wherever he looked.
Those who discriminate equally against all non-human races would earn equal hostility in return. And if the target of that hostility happened to be a paladin of the Lyon Empire... well, even the undead started to look like good company.
The paladin realized he'd walked straight into Ambrose's trap. Drawing his blade now would turn the whole tavern against him.
Strong though he might be, he could hardly fend off dozens of adventurers in cramped quarters like a bar. The paladin could only glare as Ambrose swept up the gold. He sheathed his blade unwillingly.
Then, he hissed through clenched teeth, "It seems that adventuring was the right choice. I'd never have learned a lesson like this in Lyon. My thanks to you, Master gaman Tiga. Next ti we et, I'll cleanse your soul with honor."
With that, he left, taking his companions with him.
Despite his palpable rage, he was able to keep his cool. This paladin might end up a dangerous foe.
The tavern erupted in cheers, whistles, and jeers, celebrating like they'd just won a battle. As the paladin trio reached the door, Harvey looked back at Ambrose.
A premonition stirred. Sohow, he knew that this undead, masquerading as a man, was likely the master of that infamous old castle outside the city. He had no proof, just a gut feeling. It was the kind of intuition only a divination apprentice could have.
If so... today's eting might not be such a bad thing. When the ti ca to recruit the paladin to take on the lich, maybe he'd even say yes.
Ambrose, anwhile, was studying Harvey with quiet curiosity. "An apprentice magician," he'd said, but Ambrose's instincts told him otherwise. There was more depth to that young man than even the paladin. Once again, it was a diviner's intuition at work.
Before becoming a lich, Ambrose had been a master of divination himself. He'd ascended to the realm of legend in that domain, though the blessing he'd gained from it had nothing at all to do with foresight.
After the paladins' departure, the tavern remained lively. A drow called out with a laugh, "Five thousand gold from a paladin with just a few words—you'd better be careful. You'll be wanted in the Lyon Empire before long!"
A lizardman chid in, "Right! You won't live long anyway. Why not spend it? Buy us a round!"
"Five thousand gold is enough for a month of drinks for everyone!"
"Let's start with ten mugs for !"
Their shouts piled higher and higher, but Ambrose didn't hesitate to refuse them. "Not a chance! You, didn't you say you'd puke if you drank with an undead? And you, ‘filthy and shaless,' was it? As for you, you called a bag of bones not even dogs would chew! You expect to buy you drinks? Ha! You'd sooner see the god of wealth rain down gold!"
"I didn't! Hey, that wasn't !" cried the drow who'd insulted him earlier.
For a race fad for trickery, being out-sched was an intolerable humiliation.
The crowd turned angry. "We were playing along with your act!"
"Damn stingy undead! He's even swindling us!"
"This was part of your plan too, wasn't it?!"
"Keep your gold and buy yourself a coffin!"
"Undead really don't have hearts!"
"Should've let him taste that Sacred Slash!"
......
The curses grew more colorful by the second. Ambrose didn't so much as blink. Please. Did they really think a few drunk adventurers could rile up a lich who'd outlived dynasties?
They were all just a bunch of children trying to outwit a lich who had lived for centuries.
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