Under the dim, amber light of a candle, a young magician wrote feverishly across a sheet of parchnt.
"Poor Allen has once again suffered cruel tornt, yet even at death's door, he still prays steadfastly to the Lord of Dawn. I can't help but be moved by the strength of his faith, though I also wonder what, exactly, that faith has given him.
"We are both prisoners of the sa lich, yet only he endures torture, while I, a re apprentice, am allowed to write letters ho..."
William Harvey filled page after page before finally submitting his essay, "My Paladin Friend Allen—A Brief Evaluation on the Influence of Faith on Young Minds," to Ambrose.
When Ambrose finished reading it, he nodded in approval. "Not bad at all. You're a decent author, young man. Ever considered switching careers and writing novels instead?"
Harvey forced a polite, nervous smile. "Master gaman... will a story like this really get published in Legendary Spellcraft?"
It had been Ambrose's idea, of course. He'd told Harvey to write, from his own perspective, a tale about a devout young paladin nad Allen who, driven by his faith, provoked a powerful lich and suffered for it after his capture.
The sprawling thirty-thousand-word essay subtly suggested that Allen's faith wasn't a result of genuine devotion but rather indoctrination forced upon him by an overbearing father and a fanatical upbringing.
In short, the editor-in-chief of Legendary Spellcraft, Jas Watson, was depicted as a religious zealot who had twisted both his son's life and the teachings of the Lord of Dawn.
Harvey felt his stomach sink. If this ever got published, not only would he be blacklisted by Legendary Spellcraft, the Paladin Legions might even march straight to the castle gates—not to punish Ambrose, but to haul him, William Harvey, to the stake.
Ambrose, however, seed delighted. "The main journal certainly won't publish it," he said cheerfully. "But one of the subsidiaries might. Congratulations, young man. You're officially a contributor to Legendary Spellcraft."
The flagship Legendary Spellcraft journal focused on advanced magical research, while its subsidiaries thrived on sensationalism and entertainnt. Titles like My Eighty-Year-Old Elf Loli Wife, Drifting Through the Court of the Silver Moon, or The Domineering Prince of the Lyon Empire sold by the thousands. The subsidiaries, embarrassingly enough, often outsold the flagship journal itself.
Ambrose couldn't exactly send a ransom note to the Lyon Empire reading, "Your paladin and priest are in my hands. Send a few million gold or I'll kill them."
If he did, the Empire would just declare him an enemy of the state and dispatch a holy army to crush him. Alkhemia surely wouldn't intervene.
So he chose a subtler route.
This submission was, in truth, a coded ssage to Jas Watson: "Your son is alive. Pay the ransom if you want to keep it that way."
Within the essay, Harvey repeatedly ntioned a ransom and the promise of release once paynt was received. Ambrose was certain the clever old editor would read between the lines.
Harvey knew it would land him in serious trouble, but as a prisoner, he had little choice but to obey—and to hope Ambrose would keep his word.
To his surprise, the lich had been far kinder than expected. The paladin and the priest were unhard, simply confined. The tortures described in the essay were entirely fabricated.
Once, Harvey asked why Ambrose didn't simply use torture if he wanted to make a point.
Ambrose's reply stunned him.
"Why bother? I'm busy enough running experints. I barely have ti to sleep, let alone torture people. And what would be the point? I can't harvest their souls, and if I injure them, I'd have to spend money to heal them. Why waste gold and ti?"
It made perfect sense... and yet, Harvey couldn't shake the feeling that sothing about that logic was off. A lich refraining from torture purely because of cost efficiency?
No one would ever believe that.
Still, he didn't press the issue. He was treated well: given his own room, allowed to read, even afforded quiet evenings by candlelight.
If it weren't for the skeletal sentinels always watching him, it could almost have passed for ho. He certainly didn't want to antagonize this benevolent lich and have his comforts revoked.
Ambrose sealed the essay, dispatched it to Legendary Spellcraft through a courier, and promptly returned to his laboratory.
He wasn't exaggerating when he said he was busy.
He still had to edit the live combat footage of the living rcury, finalize his experintal notes, and prepare a comprehensive report for Lady Rose, the wealthy undead noble who'd commissioned the project, in hopes of getting her to finance his research.
As far as Ambrose was concerned, the living rcury t her specifications.
It boasted superb magical resistance, was immune to the Lyon Empire's undead detectors by virtue of not actually being undead, and was capable of reshaping its body to infiltrate the capital through drain pipes or by scaling walls.
In sufficient numbers, such constructs might even breach the Empire's fortifications.
As long as none of the Lyon Empire's legends intervened, of course. Magical resistance wasn't the sa as immunity. The living rcury would perish wholesale to wide-area divine magic.
After a long day's work, Ambrose finally bundled up the data and transmitted it through the Necromantic Codex.
The response ca almost imdiately.
[Black Rose: That was fast. I thought it would take you another month or two just to finish a prototype.]
Designing high-tier undead constructs was hardly easy, especially ones built to invade the Lyon Empire.
[gaman Tiga: Standing on the shoulders of giants makes it easier. I drew inspiration from Master Morgan's work on spirit golems and used that as the frawork for my new creation. It should et your expectations.]
[Black Rose: Master Morgan? What a coincidence. I was his student.]
Ambrose blinked. No wonder she wanted vengeance on the Lyon Empire; Master Morgan had been slain by its paladins. It was a sentint he could respect.
[gaman Tiga: In honor of Master Morgan, I can offer you a discount.]
[Black Rose: Oh? How much of one?
[gaman Tiga: Let's say... 0.5% off.]
There was a long pause.
[Black Rose: Better not. If my teacher knew that his na was only worth that little, he'd rise from the grave to smash your phylactery.]
[gaman Tiga: Fair enough. Respect should co from the heart, not from a price tag.]
[Black Rose: ...]
There was no reply after that. She was probably busy reviewing the data.
Ambrose leaned back in his chair, satisfied, awaiting her feedback, until a new ssage suddenly blinked into view on the Codex.
But the sender was soone else entirely.
[Dullahan's Crown: Hey, Tiga, mind if I crash at your place for a few days?]
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