Some Regret, Others Are Worshipped
The Empire's north had always been harsh. But today, it was exceptionally brutal. As if the boundary between night and day had crumbled. A relentless blizzard whipped down from the sky without cease. The snowflakes stabbed at skin like needles. Thick gray clouds had swallowed the sun itself, casting deep shadows. Visibility was so poor that even a few steps ahead was hard to make out. The winds, sharp as blades and laced with piercing chill, tormented everyone. The troops guarding the frontline walls were especially driven to the brink by their frozen bodies. They endured only by dreaming of warm comfort. The village behind the walls lay buried in snow, stripped of all life.
In the midst of this worsening crisis... Prana, the newly appointed administrator who had taken over from Maker, was on the verge of a complete mental breakdown. Her face, wrapped in a thick silver cloak, was pale as death. Just days ago, she had been the victor. Using covert strings of power, she had exiled her senior and predecessor, Maker, from the north.
But the timing couldn't have been worse. Monster invasions had erupted across the Empire.
"The merchants say they can't come this way right now."
"Supply prices have skyrocketed. What should we do..."
"There's a problem at the mines, Administrator Prana!"
With each report, the air grew colder. The mines were the north's sole advantage, its beating heart. Buried with mana crystals and rare metals, they were the lifeline funding the troops—and a bargaining chip in negotiations with the Empire's heartland. But a monster ambush had killed or gravely wounded 30% of the miners on their way to work. Worse, the mines themselves had taken direct hits. In a single day, the north's finances teetered on the edge of a cliff.
Prana, grasping at her last hope, ordered a check on the mercenary market. The response was near despair.
"With monster sightings surging lately, the rates for mercenaries with special abilities have exploded."
"Exploded how much?"
"Three times... no, over four times the usual."
Those with unique talents—like artillery mages who fired mana like cannons, barrier casters, area-of-effect wizards, healers with priestly powers. In a hellish frontline like the north? They were already snapped up by other nobles or waiting for the highest bidder at auction.
"With our current budget, what's the limit?"
At Prana's question, the man assigned to procurement cautiously offered the ledger. This had been Maker's job before.
"Even throwing in all the emergency funds you've secured, Administrator, we might hire 100 at best."
The group clustered around Prana had buzzed with energy at first, lured by raised pay. But now, with crises piling up, the meeting room hung heavy.
100 mercenaries. A mere handful of sand against the entire northern defense line.
"The real issue is we can't guarantee even after hiring. Factoring in upkeep and casualty payouts, we'd go bankrupt in under half a year."
Bankrupt. The word echoed long in Prana's ears. Everyone thought of Maker. Come to think of it, bankruptcy had never been a worry under him, despite all the big and small problems.
"We can't just abandon the mines like this."
"R-right. No matter how you look at it, we have to get the mines running again."
Pouring gold into a halted operation? Even if they repelled the monsters, the north would collapse from within. Delayed soldier pay, cut food supplies—riots could follow.
Prana bit her lip. Problems solvable with money would have been easy. But now, even money offered no answers.
And atop that despair, the meeting dragged on. Candle flames flickered dimly in the room. Chilling drafts slithered across the stone floors between thick walls. The mood matched.
"So, what's our best option?"
Prana's voice was low but sharp. No one spoke easily.
"Request aid from the Empire?"
"Th-there are too many requests... they're handling closest areas first..."
"What about the northern nobles?"
"They say defending their own territories is burden enough."
Prana slammed the papers on the table. Especially Irene, who had backed her—she'd sealed her gates tight and gone silent the moment trouble hit. Understandable, but the betrayal stung.
Then, suddenly, Prana recalled what Maker had done and asked, "How did Maker handle it? Bring every handover document he left!"
At the order, the room's air shifted oddly. Documents piled up: troop deployments, battle stats, mine logs. With each one opened, color drained from faces.
"No way... this casualty rate is impossible."
"Troop numbers were similar, but subjugation counts are double, triple."
"Mine output never dropped below 80% once."
Someone swallowed dryly. Others scrambled for excuses.
"While Maker was handling all this, what were you doing?!"
Inevitably, Prana's wrath fell. Had Maker been doing everything alone until now? And these people had just watched like spectators, never bothering to learn details.
"It's impossible with regular troops alone."
One executive finally bowed his head. "The previous administrator was a necromancer. He used necromancy to operate corpses, swelling our forces."
Prana's eyes flashed. Realizing this now felt pathetic.
"He raised monster corpses. Every night. Built invisible defense lines."
The wise method that held the north with minimal extra budget or troops. Living dead at the front to slow advances. Ambushes, alerts, night raids—all with free labor. No need for mass mercenaries. That's why the north hadn't bankrupted in this harshness. Why the mines never stopped.
Everyone knew Maker was a necromancer. But no one imagined it carried this weight.
He'd always reported successes as "team efforts." Even when they slacked or shirked duties. Maker handled the load. That's why things ran smoothly. Not from peace, but from the mighty pillar named Maker. His presence let them overestimate themselves, grow lazy, arrogant. Then sweet promises of raises led to the swap.
If they'd known it'd come to this, they'd have blocked Prana's appointment.
Prana and everyone in the room realized something had gone terribly wrong.
The verdict was brutal. Without Maker, with this troop count and budget? Odds of holding the frontline: near zero.
Thud.
Papers slipped from Prana's hand. Blizzard howled against the windows, as if something lurked outside.
Prana drew a slow breath. What she'd driven out wasn't just a predecessor. It was the invisible shield propping up the north.
And that shield was gone.
All eyes in the room turned to her. But Prana's mind was blank white.
The result of thinking she could build this place on her own without Maker. Of deeming the academy's bottom graduate incompetent.
If things went south and it all crumbled, she'd face severe punishment as administrator. Noble-born or not, she could end up a slave in an instant.
For the first time, true terror gripped her heart.
The first time Shumi saw him, she instinctively held her breath. Amid the slave market's stench and screams, Maker stood out as utterly alien. The dark aura radiating from his body. Less a living man, more night itself walking. He gazed at Shumi wordlessly. No greed in his eyes.
That made it more terrifying.
"Why did you buy me?"
Once the slaver left and her chains were off, Shumi asked, bracing for a blow. Maker paused, then spoke low.
"There's light inside you."
Shumi's heart plummeted. The power she'd hidden from everyone.
"You're concealing it. But I feel it. Warm healing force. I want you to use it for good."
Shumi was speechless. She just stared blankly at him.
He didn't want a woman's body or service. And he'd seen right through her ability.
Holy healing light. Purification. If known, the Empire would drag her to temples or battlefields. Forced labor. Lifelong consumable, then discarded.
So she'd hidden it. Played weak, useless slave.
But this man saw through instantly.
What is he?
Curiosity stirred in Shumi. Would he drop the mask later and do something vile? She couldn't fully trust, but her fears didn't materialize. He treated his slave like family. Shared table and food, warm baths, beds. Sleeping bags on camps. When she realized it was genuine...
Curiosity and faint affection bloomed in Shumi for this man.
What drove him?
The question resolved soon. Maker took Shumi toward his target lands. The path teemed with monsters—recently rioting in numbers. Too dangerous for two alone. Death could strike anywhere.
But what Shumi witnessed was Maker's one-sided slaughter.
At his gesture, darkness surged from the earth. Buried bones rose.
The famed Skeleton Legion. Skull soldiers with blue flames flickering in eye sockets formed ranks. Monster charges met bone shields. Rib spears pierced hearts.
At first, just watching made Shumi tremble. Blasphemy. Raising the dead. Pinnacle of dark power.
Yet amid the scene, she noticed something odd.
Maker's skeletons never harmed people. They shielded fleeing merchants, cut down monsters nearing starving children first.
After battles, he checked survivors himself, gathered wounded, moved them to safety.
The darkness was real, but aimed toward light.
Vagabonds, slash-and-burn farmers, poor commoners began following Maker one by one.
"Follow him, and we'll live."
"Yeah. We gotta worship that guy!"
"Ooh... save us...!"
Fanatic-like, but their eyes held hope, not fear.
Maker acted accordingly. Post-battle, he prioritized people. Rebuilt ruined homes. Shared his grain when short.
He instructed Shumi separately: use her light for healing.
As his slave, it reduced risks of being dragged away. Following his orders, she healed and honed her skills.
At night, Maker gathered people for protection. He stood guard against raids.
They bowed to him.
Rumors spread; followers grew.
And this saying passed among them:
"Maker... I can't help but worship him...!"
Shumi nodded at the words. A new desire stirred in her.
Not as Maker's slave... but as his right hand, revered by all.