The Necromancer's Servant

Within the residence of Count Garcia in Alrasia's royal city, the Count had just finished his bath. Clad in silk pajamas, he strolled toward his bedroom.

This bath was a special indulgence—he had hired the Alrasia's most renowned masseuse and used a bottle of mixed essential oils worth 50 gold coins to be meticulously massaged. At this moment, every inch of his skin felt soft and elastic, so sensitive that he could even sense the pulsation of his body hair moving along with the flow of his blood. Beneath the silk undergarments, as smooth as the skin of a young maiden, lay muscles long concealed by layers of fat, now seemingly regaining the explosive strength they had 30 years ago when he was still fighting on the battlefield.

It wasn't just his body; even his spirit felt rejuvenated, as if transported back to his prime. Every nerve and drop of blood within him surged with vitality and unbridled desire. It had been years since he felt this way. As the Minister of Military Affairs for the kingdom, he had experienced countless pleasures in life. Yet, too much indulgence had numbed him. But the prelude to the great enjoyment he anticipated tonight was so electrifying that even his dulled nerves reignited with vigor.

Over the years of political life and indulgence, his body had grown obese. But now, he felt like an eighteen-year-old again—brimming with energy and strength—as he strode down the corridor. Memories of his first kill at the age of fifteen came flooding back: the rush of adrenaline as he pinned down a girl he had stolen, the roaring sensation in his blood… it was the same feeling that coursed through him now.

Pushing open the door, he saw the elven maiden on the bed. The surge of energy in his body instantly boiled, ready to explode.

Her light golden hair cascaded across a snow-white nightgown, her features as delicate as if drawn by the finest brushwork, her nose and lips as if carved from the most exquisite jade by a master sculptor. Her pointed ears and the natural, untainted purity she radiated gave her an otherworldly beauty—like a perfect fruit plucked casually from the forest. It was an untouched charm, unattainable by any mortal woman. Her frightened and helpless expression only fueled the Count's primal instincts, shaking his very soul with a savage roar.

From the moment the Count first laid eyes on this elven maiden three days ago, he was captivated. He immediately agreed to the request of the Viscount who had gifted her. While the Viscount's role in procuring supplies for the upcoming war with Orford was lucrative—worth at least two or three thousand gold coins—the Count didn't hesitate to hand over the position. Though countless nobles were vying for this opportunity, some of whom were too important to refuse, he simply couldn't resist such a gift. Even as a devout follower of the faith, he reasoned that all believers needed entertainment and relaxation to better serve their gods.

The Count had spent an entire day preparing for this moment, even sending his wife and sons away. He was determined to dedicate all his energy and time to savoring this "present."

As he approached the bed, he grabbed the end of the intricate rope that bound the elf. With a gentle flick, the knot loosened. The elf's fear intensified; she let out a scream and raised her hands to push him away.

The Count easily caught her wrists and forced her down. She had been drugged beforehand with a potion that left her body weak—perfectly calibrated to allow for a token struggle while rendering her powerless.

Feeling the feeble resistance in her wrists, seeing her unparalleled beauty twisted with terror and despair because of him, the Count let out a deep growl. It was as if the air he exhaled was fire, ignited by the heat of his own blood.

Just as he lost himself to his burning desires, a sound from behind startled him—a door being kicked open with force. The Count leapt up in alarm.

From the sound alone, he knew this was no servant entering to serve tea. Immediately, he prepared a perfect excuse for his wife, only to turn and see something entirely unexpected.

Standing in the doorway was another elf.

This one was tall, taller than most men, exuding a blend of elegance and boldness, with a hint of killing intent. Her lithe figure clad in leather armor and the long black bow in her hands gleamed under the light, sharp as a drawn blade.

"Kaylin!" The elf on the bed cried out in joy at the sight of her kin. Her voice, overflowing with relief and happiness, sent a shiver down the Count's spine.

A tall man dressed entirely in black stepped in from the corridor. Standing casually beside the elven woman, he wore a mask carved from wood that covered the lower half of his face. His dark hair framed a pair of black eyes that fixed on the Count.

Those eyes held neither malice nor hostility, even a hint of amusement, yet the Count felt his freshly oiled skin break into goosebumps.

"Guards!" the Count roared, his voice hoarse and cracking as sweat poured down his fat face.

"They're already here," the masked man said with a wave of his hand. Three figures were tossed into the room.

The Count recognized them immediately—his three personal guards. He had ensured that no one else would be near the bedroom, and these three, all former captains of the royal knights, were the best of the best. Their loyalty was beyond question. That they were defeated and thrown in like sacks of grain made the Count's blood run cold.

One guard's lifeless eyes were bulging, his face frozen in terror; another's head was severed in half. The third had a small wound at his throat, leaking blue blood that looked like paint.

A hulking orc, a woman in black, and a scar-faced man stepped in behind the elf and the masked man.

Panicked, the Count lunged at the elf on the bed. She struggled to stand but couldn't muster the strength.

A green flash darted past the Count, and with a loud crash, a section of the wall collapsed.

"Don't move if you want to live," the elf woman said coldly, lowering her bow. "The elders instructed me not to kill unless necessary, but I have no qualms ending the life of a filthy human like you. Consider yourself lucky you hadn't done anything to my kin yet, or you'd already be dead."

The Count froze, his nose slightly grazed, a small patch of skin missing. He dared not believe it was mere luck or bad aim. The reinforced stone wall's gaping hole made it clear—if that green light had been aimed at his head, he'd be nothing but splatter on the ceiling.

Gathering his composure, the Count spoke in a calm, measured tone. "I understand. I won't resist. You've come for her, haven't you? Take her and go."

The elf seemed taken aback, her sharp gaze studying the portly, grotesque man. She had expected him to be more like a cockroach or a rat, not someone with such composure in the face of death.

The Count turned slowly, keeping his movements deliberate. Though his face was drenched in sweat, he appeared calm and collected. Bowing slightly, he spoke respectfully. "She was given a potion that weakens the muscles, but it's harmless. It'll wear off soon. As you can see, I haven't laid a finger on her. She was bought from bandits and sent to me, but she's been treated well these past few days. You can ask her yourself. I admit my sins—I am despicable and shameless."

The masked man chuckled, clapping slowly. "Impressive, Count Garcia. You assessed the situation and made the smartest choice so quickly. Truly worthy of your reputation as Alrasia's Minister of Military Affairs."

"You flattered me," the Count replied, bowing humbly. "Under the third floorboard below the bed is a pouch of gems worth 2,000 gold. If you need it, it's yours."

The masked man raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Generous. How do I know it's not trapped or rigged with an alarm?"

The Count smiled, his tone servile. "This is my own bedroom. Who would set traps under their own bed? And an alarm would only seal my own fate. If you're unsure, I'll fetch it for you."

"No need. I believe you," the man replied, handing the elven maiden to her companion. He gestured for the scar-faced man. "Retrieve the Count's 'gift.'"

The scar-faced man rummaged under the bed and pulled out a pouch. Opening it, he beamed. "Boss, it's genuine—valuable gems!"

The Count, maintaining his composure, offered, "If you spare my life, I can prepare another sum just as large by tomorrow. You can name the location. I swear on my faith, my family's honor, and my loyalty to the kingdom that I'll deliver."

The masked man nodded thoughtfully. "A clever negotiator. How can I refuse such an offer?"

Just as the Count felt a glimmer of hope, the masked man sighed and turned away. "Unfortunately, the decision isn't mine to make."

Before the Count could react, a hand gripped his chin from behind, and a blue dagger plunged into his throat. His body convulsed violently before collapsing, blue blood spraying from the wound.

"Even someone unarmed and already surrendered, you still have to kill?" The tall female elf, supporting her companion, glared angrily at the masked man.

"I told you, it's not my decision to kill him," the man sighed as he pulled a piece of parchment and a charcoal pencil from his pocket. The parchment was densely covered with text, and one entry outlined Count Garcia's profile—short and concise:

Intelligent, sharp judgment, knows when to advance or retreat, a key minister of Alrasia. Lustful. Loyal to the church. Must be eliminated.

"Could Lord Borugan's handwriting be any more legible?" the man muttered, marking a black line through Count Garcia's name with the charcoal pencil. Then, speaking softly to himself, he repeated, "It's not that I wanted to kill him… I suppose he deserved to die."