The Potential Master
From that day on, Zeke and Milo were enlisted as soldiers of the Falaon territory.
"We'll be in your care."
"Hmph."
That—that rude little—
Zeke at least made an effort at courtesy, but Milo kept a high-handed attitude toward the soldiers from the start.
Of course he does. A man-at-arms is entitled to a bit of pride.
For reference, men-at-arms were soldiers who fought fully armed like knights without actually being knights—heavy cavalry, in other words.
The two of them were a little lightly equipped for men-at-arms, but they had probably sold off their gear when they left their mercenary company.
On the other hand, I was worried.
Whether our territory's rather soft soldiers would be able to claim any seniority over those two.
...Of course, that worry was groundless.
"Don't worry, Young Master. Our territory's soldiers may not look it, but they're veterans who've been through every hardship imaginable."
Just as Sir Valt said, the two of them—Milo especially—grew darker in the face with every passing day.
Some thoroughly foul and vicious initiation rite was clearly underway.
Our territory soldiers are no ordinary bunch either, I see.
True enough.
I felt oddly proud.
Still, half-afraid they might bolt, I secretly slipped Zeke and Milo some candy.
"Young Master...!"
"Ah—kkh!"
"Hang in there a little longer."
It was the kind of encouragement that somehow reminded me of my own days as a private.
"Yes, sir! We will!"
"Young Master, we shall devote our full loyalty!"
Loyalty was overdoing it. I just wanted them to last as long as possible.
Opportunities to work capable people at bargain rates did not come around often.
At any rate, I spent my mornings and evenings in the mine-development meetings, and every other hour drilling necromancy and physical conditioning.
And the result:
Clatter-clatter-clack—!
Hmm. You've gotten rather proficient.
"I have, haven't I."
I could cast Bone Armor reasonably fast now.
Collaborating with Golgol made it faster and stronger still, but even without Golgol I was at the point where I could use it in a real fight.
And Golgol?
Clack! Click!
Even Golgol's form with the greatsword was starting to look halfway convincing.
Not long ago it had been hard to tell whether the greatsword was swinging Golgol or Golgol was swinging the greatsword. Now Golgol had clearly seized the initiative.
Well done, Golgol.
Daily life was proceeding smoothly enough—but that did not mean I was free of worries.
"When people talk about necromancy, they mean a one-man army... so why aren't my summons increasing?"
Frankly, Golgol alone is more than you deserve.
No, you devil!
Well, if things stayed as they were, it would not really matter.
But I knew better.
Mine development... this is a cliché.
It was quiet for now, but the moment word of the vein got out in earnest, every kind of fly would come buzzing.
And then even monsters like Vilheim or Sir Valt, Zeke or Milo, would not be enough to hold the territory.
In the end, wars were fought by armies.
So what then?
Become a one-man army as fast as possible? Wouldn't that be nice?
I was not even asking for a full legion.
Just about thirty skeletons on Golgol's level—wouldn't that be perfect?
You dream large. Thirty skeletons like Golgol?
"It's just a manner of speaking."
Hmm. Well, it is not as if there is no method at all.
"What? What is it?"
The classical approach. Raising skeletons from a graveyard... that sort of thing.
"That feels a little..."
Even if my talent was necromancy, I did not much care for the idea of raising the dead without permission.
If you dislike mediated summoning, what else is there? You simply work hard. Grow your capacity and increase the number of non-mediated summons.
"Hmm. Isn't there some other way?"
Anything you get for free will come back to bite you.
Is that so.
I supposed I was being greedy.
Having memorized On Death and come to understand a fair portion of its contents, I could now gauge my own level with some objectivity.
My current level was... how to put it...
Like skipping the first class change and jumping straight to second-class skills.
A novice necromancer summoning a non-mediated undead like Golgol in the first place was already absurd.
But the frustration remained.
Ugh. What do I do.
I was still turning it over when a visitor arrived.
Vilheim himself.
He showed up without warning, tossed out a single line, and left.
"Pack light. We have somewhere to go."
Hmm.
Did he think I was the sort of person who came when told to come and went when told to go?
In that case, he had me pegged exactly.
"Yes, heh heh."
I did not need to be told twice. I ran to my room and got ready.
But what on earth had Vilheim called me for?
Still wondering, I stepped out in front of the inner gate and found Vilheim waiting with two horses.
"Where are we going, exactly?"
"To pick up a friend."
"A friend?"
Vilheim nodded at my question.
"A mage friend."
Ah. I remembered.
He had mentioned a mage friend who had helped him obtain my necromancy textbook, On Death.
He had been planning a separate meeting with Father; apparently today was the day.
Still, I had my doubts.
What kind of person is he?
A friend of Vilheim's—I could not even picture it.
I could only hope he was not the violent type.
We left the castle and rode without conversation.
After some time, Vilheim suddenly spoke.
"Your necromancy."
"Yes?"
"Is it going well?"
"Ah—yes. Thanks to you."
"Thanks to me... so it was not entirely useless, then."
"Um... yes."
Honestly I was not sure I had accomplished anything through On Death itself, but thanks to it I had been able to form a contract with the Ancestor, so that counted for something.
After that brief exchange I settled back into peaceful silence...
"Golgol."
"Yes?"
"Lately it seems to be using a greatsword. And with the family's swordsmanship, no less."
"Ah, that is..."
"Impressive."
"...Ah. Yes."
I had no idea what was impressive about it, but I answered appropriately.
Surely now there was nothing left to—
"Was it an elder of the family?"
"Yes?"
"Golgol, I mean. The only people who could teach the family's swordsmanship are Father and me, and Father said it was not him."
Surely he did not think I had gone and raised one of the family's elders—one of our ancestors—as an undead.
What did he take me for?
I was still hesitating over how to answer when Vilheim spoke again.
"Do not tell Father."
"Pardon?"
"Even from you, learning that you revived an ancestor and call him Golgol would be a considerable shock."
"No, that is not—"
"It is fine. And the ancestor would be pleased. Helping a descendant—he would certainly be glad of it."
He seemed to be under a serious misunderstanding, but I gave up on correcting him.
Better to leave well enough alone.
Still.
"Would he really be pleased?"
"Of course."
I had not been asking Vilheim.
I had been asking the Ancestor himself.
And the party in question answered as follows:
Don't talk nonsense. If you ever actually raise my bones—which you will not—I will wipe out three generations on the spot. If it were not for Falaon's revival, tsk.
A truly hair-raising bloodline.
The descendant only praises the idea of raising the ancestor's remains and putting them to work... while the ancestor threatens to wipe out three generations of the descendant.
Come to think of it, Father had turned Grandfather into a debt-ridden incompetent for the sake of the family.
Perhaps a streak of patricide ran in our blood.
I sincerely hoped not.
At any rate.
We rode on in silence for a while longer.
"We are here."
"Oh. Yes."
The place Vilheim stopped was a cabin sitting beside a narrow footpath.
He tied the horses loosely and knocked on the door.
"It is me."
"Who are you?"
"Vilheim."
"Vilheim? Vil... ah, right. Vil, you're here."
The door burst open and a man stepped out.
At the same moment I went kek and clamped a hand over my nose.
What is that reek of alcohol...
The man smelled as if he had showered in liquor, and he beamed at us.
"What brings you today? And the one next to you... a necromancer? Looks rather young. Did you catch him?"
"This is my little brother."
"Little brother...? This?"
This bastard...?
The drunk kneaded my face the way one might work a pancake, staring at me for a long time.
And then—
The drunk's eyes gave a strange glitter.
"Vilheim."
"What."
"Why have you gotten so young? Did you find a rejuvenation potion somewhere..."
"That is my little brother."
"Hmm. Hmmm. Right, so it is. Yes, indeed it is."
What the hell is wrong with this guy.
A madman, clearly.
Agreed.
Fortunately, I was not the only one whose patience had reached its limit.
"Ren. I will count to three. Get your head straight by then."
"Three, so I count numbers? Three..."
"Two. One."
Vilheim stepped forward, spun the drunk around, and without the slightest hesitation drove a fist into his solar plexus.
Thud—!
"Guargh...!"
After that, the sound of thoroughly brutal impacts rang out from among the bushes.
I properly exchanged greetings with Bioren—commonly called Ren—a full hour later.
"Younger brother? My apologies for the first meeting. Cases like this are not common."
"It is fine."
Sober, Ren was... a rather fine-looking man, honestly.
Even so, I could not quite warm to him. Setting aside the handsome face, his entire atmosphere was the textbook specimen of a half-lidded-eyes character.
I decided then and there to classify Ren as a potential dark schemer.
At any rate.
"Come in and sit for now. You too, Vil. Something to drink, perhaps...?"
"I am fine."
"I am alright as well."
"Hmm. Alright. Then I will drink alone."
Ren said so, vanished somewhere, and reappeared holding a single cup.
Honey tea so thick with the scent of honey it seemed ready to induce diabetes on smell alone. Ren drained it in one go and smiled.
"Feeling alive again. So—you coming means the meeting with the Baron has been arranged?"
"Yes. And..."
"Bringing your brother means you want 'that,' I take it? From where I sit, the brother seems to be the main point."
"Correct."
Vilheim answered evenly, and Ren looked at me.
"So. Is the younger brother ready?"
"Pardon? Ready for what?"
"Hmm...? You were not told anything?"
"No."
I had been told nothing.
I had simply been told to follow, and so I had followed.
"A rare case. A bastard son following the legitimate heir without asking a single question."
"Do not talk nonsense."
This was simply resignation on my part.
If Vilheim meant to drag me somewhere, he would drag me one way or another.
But...
...Is he smiling?
What was so funny to Vilheim now?
Well. That was not the important part.
"Would it be alright if I heard what the situation is?"
"Well... explaining is not difficult, but it would be better for you to see it yourself. Can you wait a moment?"
"Yes."
Ren said so, vanished again, and returned.
In his hands was a box.
What could that be.
I watched quietly as Ren held the box out to me.
"Open it."
"Ah. Yes."
The box was fairly heavy. And inside...
A skull?
Yes. A skull.
But not just any skull.
Kyaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah—!
A screaming skull.
What the hell.
I blinked at Ren, and he answered with a smile.
"Say hello. He is a candidate for your master, younger brother."
What even is this.