My First Undead
The Ancestor and I both blinked.
"Ancestor?"
"Speak, my descendant."
"Do undead normally have egos?"
"……Of course not. Even non-medium undead, raised without a vessel, do not come to possess a sense of self."
Right. No ego was the normal state of things.
So then what exactly was the fellow standing in front of me?
"Hello?"
Golgol?
"What's your name?"
Gol?
The skeleton tilted its head this way and that, over and over — for all the world as if it had no idea what its own name was.
Well then. As the one who had called it forth, naming it was the least I could do.
"From now on, your name is Golgol. Got it?"
Golgol!
Hmm. Seemed to like it.
"Even so, a name is a serious matter……"
Gal!
Ancestor, it said it likes it itself!
Hold on — did that mean Golgol was, strictly speaking, my very first undead?
"Huh. I'm oddly proud of that."
"But then… does that mean I cannot take this body for my own?"
Ah.
Come to think of it, the whole reason we'd raised an undead in the first place had been to give the Ancestor a body. I'd completely forgotten.
So what now?
"Golgol."
Gol?
"Any chance I could borrow your body for a bit?"
Gol……?
Golgol tilted its head at the request — then gave a vigorous nod.
Good. Consent secured. I turned to the Ancestor.
"Care to try stepping in?"
"Very well. You know the method, I trust?"
"Mm…… yes."
I hadn't known it originally.
But somehow — the way it had been when I first created Golgol — something rose up from instinct. As natural as moving my own arms and legs.
Probably thanks to awakening Death's Blessing.
I focused my will.
"Hmm. Like this, is it."
The Ancestor's form began to settle over Golgol, layer by layer. I watched their union with a flutter of anticipation in my chest.
It was a moment thick with tension.
The hero of Heorn. The Dragonslayer. A legend whose name had been carved into history was about to manifest here again, after so long a span of time.
How long I held that concentration, I couldn't say.
"……"
Golgol's head drooped, then slowly lifted again.
Fierce light blazed in those empty sockets.
The instant I met those eyes, I knew.
Arch the Dragonslayer had returned to this world.
A shiver ran through my whole body as the Ancestor stretched out a hand.
"Give me a sword."
"……Yes."
I started across the room toward the ornamental blade hanging on my wall.
And then—
A sharp ping—
A dizzying lurch, and my vision went black.
"Descendant?"
"Bleeaaaargh—!"
I blacked out under a wave of vertigo so vicious it nearly killed me.
My second collapse of the day.
When I came to, the ceiling above me was a familiar one.
And beside me… a face that was known and yet somehow strange.
"Have you come around?"
"……Lady Hella?"
"You may call me Stepmother, if you wish."
"Ah — yes."
Hella, my father's lawful wife — my stepmother — finished folding the cloth she'd been using to wipe my sweat and spoke again.
"A servant came to call you for a meal and found you. I was told you had been practicing necromancy. Is that so?"
"Yes. I've caused you trouble."
"Hardly trouble. Still, I would prefer you take care of your body even while you train. Rest easy now. I shall take my leave."
"……Thank you."
With that, my stepmother left the room.
I blinked for a moment, still half-dazed.
How to put it.
This is… taking some getting used to.
And was "Stepmother" even the right thing to call her in a situation like this?
No idea.
I was still awkwardly turning the question of titles over in my head when a voice cut in.
"You're awake."
Ancestor — what happened?
"You suddenly started vomiting and collapsed on the spot. Mana exhaustion, from the look of it."
Mana exhaustion?
Come to think of it, in the moment before I went down, my heart had felt hollowed out — completely empty of mana.
Which meant, if this really was mana exhaustion, then keeping a possession active at all times was out of the question.
So… what do we do?
"No need to look so disappointed. At your current capacity this is the limit, but as your mana pool grows it will improve by degrees. And for that, you will simply have to train your necromancy all the harder."
Apparently, practicing necromancy alone was enough to increase one's mana. The same held true for everyone else — a swordsman's mana grew with the sword, a mage's with magic, the power accumulating in the heart little by little.
So training really is the answer.
Ugh.
I pushed my drained body upright and looked around.
"Where's Golgol, though?"
"Who can say. It vanished after you collapsed."
Just… gone, then?
The thought had barely formed when something else occurred to me.
"I think I could summon it again if I wanted."
"How?"
"Like this."
At a flex of will, a trickle of mana left my heart — and a familiar skeleton appeared at the bedside a heartbeat later.
Golgol……!
Golgol pulled a long face the moment it saw me. Asking if I was all right, from the look of it. I gave a nod.
"I'm fine. This is nothing."
Golgol!
Ah. So this was why people raised undead.
A warm little feeling settled in my chest.
"Would just keeping it summoned like this count as necromancy practice?"
"You ask the obvious."
Music to my ears.
So I can train just by breathing?
I'd keep Golgol summoned at all times, then. The mana drain wasn't significant — it should be fine.
That left another question, though.
"Golgol, what do you want to do?"
Golgol?
"Want to try learning swordsmanship?"
An ordinary skeleton would get whatever weapon you shoved into its hands and be spent as disposable fodder. But Golgol was an undead with an ego.
Which meant it might actually be able to learn the sword…
Golgol!
Golgol nodded so hard its skull nearly came off, practically vibrating with excitement.
I smiled at the sight, then looked to the Ancestor.
"Could you teach Golgol some basic sword work?"
"Fundamentals, at least. That much I can manage."
"Golgol, grab the sword on that display rack, would you?"
"You mean to start this instant? Without resting further? Push too hard and your body will not hold."
"I think this much should be fine."
As I'd said, simply keeping Golgol summoned wasn't much of a burden. And more than that — my mana pool had grown considerably since before I'd blacked out.
The exhaustion I felt now wasn't from empty mana. It was the aftershock of having run dry.
Golgol drew the blade and settled into a stance.
"Hm? Why is this sword bent? Good heavens — has House Falaon fallen so far? A lamentable state of affairs. Golgol, take the one beside it."
Golgol.
…Right. I was the one who'd bent it.
I'd have to ask Father to replace it later.
Golgol drew a fresh sword and took its stance again.
"Now. Mirror my posture. Imagine a blade in this hand, and watch."
The Ancestor stood before Golgol and settled into position — feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, back straight, gaze fixed forward.
A textbook stance. The kind you might have seen somewhere before.
"Watch closely."
What followed was more of the same. An arm rising overhead, then cutting straight down in a clean vertical arc.
And somehow the whole sequence looked convincing — empty-handed, and yet as if a real sword were there.
"Your turn."
Golgol.
Golgol studied the Ancestor, checked its own posture, and raised the blade properly.
Then brought it down in a vertical cut.
Whoosh!
The sword split the air with a sharp rush of sound.
And in that instant, a strange sensation prickled at the edge of my mind.
"Not bad for a first attempt…… Hm? Descendant, what is it?"
"One moment. Golgol — do that again?"
Golgol!
Delighted, Golgol brought the sword down a second time.
"Again."
Golgol!
The same downward cut as before.
I fixed my attention on that itching, tingling sensation and had Golgol repeat the strike over and over — eventually telling it to keep going until I said stop.
"What is the matter? Is something wrong?"
"Well……"
How best to describe what I was feeling?
Yes. That was it.
"I think Golgol's training is being shared with me."
"What? Is that true?"
"Yes."
Shared training? Shared training gains?
Shared training gains — that was the better way to put it.
In simple terms……
Auto-training?
No — in this case, was it more like a macro?
The next day.
Once my body had recovered, I headed straight for the training grounds.
It was early morning, but Sir Valt and the other knights were already deep in their drills.
"Young Master, you've come."
"Yes, Sir Valt."
"I received word from Young Master Bilheim. I understand training is required……"
"Ah — yes."
I nodded for the time being.
My original purpose had been to train Golgol, but the truth was I needed the practice myself.
"On the battlefield, one never knows what may come. Even a mage requires some means of self-defense. Until your necromancy reaches a certain level, keep close combat in mind as well."
Fair point.
And more than that — having come into possession of the shield Kracion, I ought to learn at least the basics of how to use it.
"Then I shall have you run ten light laps of the grounds. But the skeleton beside you is……"
"Ah — that's my undead. Would you be willing to train this one as well?"
"Train an undead, you say?"
Sir Valt's eyes went round.
Of course it sounded strange. Asking someone to drill an undead wasn't exactly a common request.
Nothing to be done about that.
A genius's extraordinary methods were always going to be hard for ordinary people to grasp.
"……Your nose has grown rather high."
It was always this high, Ancestor.
In any case, Sir Valt looked thoroughly nonplussed — but he agreed to let Golgol join.
"If it serves you, Young Master, then gladly."
"I'll leave it to you, then."
"Yes. In that case, Young Master, please complete ten light laps of the training grounds."
"……Yes."
Cardio.
I'd hated cardio in my previous life too.
But there was no getting around it. This wasn't "exercise" in the ordinary sense — it was training.
Training to survive in a brutal medieval world where violence was the rule of the land.
And so, under Sir Valt's instruction, the training began.
Every morning I learned swordsmanship and shield work from Sir Valt, and every day he marveled at how rapidly my skill improved.
"Remarkable. To advance this quickly… it would be impossible without a genuine talent for the blade."
"Is that so."
"Indeed. A true pity. Had you awakened a talent for the greatsword instead……"
I could understand the sentiment.
Of course he'd be disappointed — a sword prodigy snatched away by necromancy.
"Do not put on airs. Not when you are sharing training gains with Golgol."
Ah — for the record, a few experiments had shown that the sharing only went one way. My own training gains didn't transfer to Golgol.
A mildly disappointing discovery, that.
At any rate, the days of training and necromantic research continued — until one particular morning.
"Sir Valt, a moment……"
At a summons from Maroon, the old butler, Sir Valt stepped away. When he returned, his face had gone stiff.
"Young Master, I believe we will have to end today's training here."
"Is something wrong?"
I asked, reading the gravity in his expression.
Sir Valt hesitated a beat, then spoke.
"Viscount Hadion has sent a man."
"Viscount Hadion — the neighboring territory?"
"Yes. The Baron has called for me, so I must take my leave."
"Ah. Of course."
I watched Sir Valt's retreating back. And when I turned my head, I caught sight of a man entering the lord's keep.
A figure of considerable… presence. Or, to put it less kindly, a fat man whose whole bearing reeked of greed.
Is that the one Viscount Hadion sent?
"It is. I overheard a little earlier — an administrator by the name of Pervil."
Administrator Pervil.
Tch. Something about that man's face rubs me the wrong way.
And sure enough, it wasn't long before a roar erupted from the direction of Father's study.
"How dare you—! You must be out of your mind to spout such garbage!"
My father's voice, raw with fury.