Only Golgol Could Wield It
I took in the sight of the reborn Golgol.
Its body was a matte black that seemed to swallow every scrap of light. The sacred radiance pouring from its eye sockets was almost holy. Yet the moment my gaze reached the greatsword gripped in its hand, an inexplicable terror rose in place of any sense of sanctity.
Krr.
This was it.
Do you like it?
Yes. Of course.
I confess: honestly, I had never thought necromancer was a particularly cool profession. Not that I was putting down the Goltikmu Trio or the Valhalla Skeletons—they simply had no presence at all.
You know how it is. Necromancers in stories always feel like lords of the battlefield, pilgrims of darkness, that sort of thing.
Leading the Goltikmu Trio and Valhalla Skeletons, I felt more like… exaggerating a little… a grave robber. And the undead I dragged around looked like specimens from a science classroom.
But now it was different.
Why?
Because I had Dark Golgol.
"Golgol."
Golgol.
Mm. Even the reply sounded reliable.
My satisfied appreciation lasted only a moment. I asked Golgol for its thoughts.
"How about it? Feeling better now?"
Golgol!
It says it couldn't be better.
Good. I had been wondering what I would do if this still failed to cheer it up. It might have looked easy, but pouring every last drop of Necromantic Essence into Golgol had not been a light decision for me either.
All right. Golgol's mood was fixed.
I'd like to research the Necromantic Essence a little more while I'm at it.
No joke—when I had injected the Necromantic Essence into Golgol just now, a spark of inspiration had struck me. So I had intended to give Golgol free time the same way I had with Tiktak, but…
Golgol!
"Huh? Follow you?"
Golgoool!
Golgol seized my collar and urged me onward, insisting I follow.
What is it?
I don't know either.
I tilted my head but fell into step beside Golgol. The place it led me was the training grounds.
Why the training grounds…?
Golgol planted me in a corner of the grounds and trudged away. It walked straight to the center, approached Milo mid-practice, and leveled its sword at him.
"Huh? You… Golgol? Why'd you get so black?"
Golgol!
"What's with this guy? Wants a match? Young Master, am I reading this right?"
"Mm. Seems like it."
"Hrm."
Milo appeared to weigh the idea for a moment, then looked at me.
"Mind if I spar with it?"
"Mm, go ahead. But be careful. I injected Necromantic Essence into it."
"Necromantic Essence… Ah, that. The energy that blocks aura."
"Yes."
At my answer, Milo grinned.
"Perfect. I needed a suitable opponent. No need to hold back, right?"
I did not answer. Before I could, Golgol roared.
Golgoool—!
No holding back whatsoever.
In the middle of the broad training grounds, Golgol and Milo faced each other.
Milo stood nearly two meters tall; Golgol was a touch shorter. The height difference alone was one thing, but Milo's well-packed muscle made the disparity in weight class even more glaring. A pure contest of strength looked as though it would be decided in moments.
Of course, you never know until you try.
"Young Master."
"Yes. I'll give the signal."
I flicked the coin I had been holding. It spun upward into the air. Milo's pupils sank deep, as though drinking in the light, and his presence condensed at the same instant.
That presence exploded the moment the coin struck the earth.
Clang—!
A clear ring was followed by a thunderous crash. Dust erupted like a blast, and Milo's body shot forward in a straight line like a cannonball, a trailing afterimage of aura stretching behind him.
Another roar of impact came right after.
Boom!
"Ha!?"
Milo let out an involuntary cry of surprise. The strike he had launched with the resolve to end it in one blow had been stopped? A frail skeleton's body should never have been able to withstand it.
So this is the Necromantic Essence, is it?
He had never met a necromancer other than me, but he had spent more than a decade on battlefields. Of course he had heard of "undead that block aura." He had simply never believed it possible.
Durability confirmed. Then…
Now for strength.
Milo kept his blade locked and shoved forward with raw power. Metal and bone ground together, producing a hideous screech.
Just a little more—if I cannot cut, I will crush!
With that resolve he drove his foot hard into the ground—and that was when Golgol's roar reached him.
Golgoooooool—!
Boom!
The greatsword swept in a massive arc.
"Kh!"
Milo lost his balance under the explosive force. Two steps. He retreated, then immediately reset his stance.
I was pushed for a moment, but strength still favors me.
He meant to drag the fight back into a contest of power and charge again—when Golgol, already set, carved the air with its greatsword.
Whoooom—!
"…!"
The monstrous sword stroke made Milo flinch and retreat once more. He could have blocked it if he tried, but the sheer presence had driven him back.
What kind of greatsword is that…
It was far too fast!
The relentless barrage began immediately after.
Whiiish! Whish!
The sound was less like a sword and more like a whip cracking. Milo, stunned by the absurd spectacle, still answered with calm precision—dodging the frontal cuts, parrying only those that threatened to break his rhythm.
Jet-black afterimages of the greatsword painted the training grounds; now and then sparks of aura burst outward. Inside that storm of impossible successive strikes, Milo coolly hunted for openings. Strike, block, evade. The instant a gap appeared he slipped inside and thrust.
Kang!
Kagagagagak! Chang!
The bout quickly turned into a chaotic melee. At that point I could no longer follow the exchange.
This is… really Milo and Golgol?
Mm. Truly surprising. Milo has grown a great deal. But the real marvel is Golgol.
Why Golgol?
I was just as astonished by Golgol, yet I wanted the expert opinion of the ancestor.
Look carefully. That is Arch Falaon's greatsword technique—yet it is slightly different.
Different how?
I watched Golgol. I was hardly ignorant of Arch Falaon's greatsword art; Golgol's training experience was shared with me. And yet it was different?
Look closer. Closer.
"…"
I narrowed my eyes. The greatsword that bent and snapped like a whip, the way it dominated space as if crushing the air rather than simply cutting the opponent—those were hallmarks of Arch Falaon's style. Nothing different so far.
Nothing different, and yet…
Wait. It bends like a whip?
Something felt off. In wuxia terms, Arch Falaon's greatsword technique was a crushing sword style—linear, almost monotonous, yet so powerful that knowing the attack still could not stop it.
Golgol's version was something else entirely.
How to put it…
The angles… aren't they a little strange?
So you finally noticed. Yes. The angles are different. It is moving through ranges no human body could ever reach.
Wrist, elbow, shoulder. From the arm that directly swung the sword, to the waist that naturally followed the body's motion, all the way down to knee and ankle—Golgol's joints were folding into ever more grotesque angles. One moment it whipped the greatsword with nothing but the strength of its wrist, as if performing a high-wire act; the next it tore its shoulder free to full extension and drove the blade forward.
These were movements a living person might manage once, never twice. Even a knight whose body had been tempered to the limit would suffer irreversible injury if he repeated them. And that, perhaps, was why—
Kang, kagagak!
"Hup!"
Milo, who had been retreating and probing for chances, was suddenly being driven back without answer. He could not adapt to Golgol's increasingly bizarre motion; his hands and feet began to tangle.
Golgol's assault only grew fiercer.
The ancestor judged that swordsmanship thus:
This is Arch Falaon's greatsword technique as only Golgol can perform it.
A greatsword art that would end in catastrophe for anyone else—an art only an undead of iron-hard flesh could unleash.
In that instant—
Kaaang—!
A metallic ring unlike any before rang out. The sword flew skyward, and silence settled. When the blade finally drove into the earth with a heavy thud, the victor of the brief spar was decided.
Thud.
Milo stared at the greatsword leveled at his throat, then shifted his gaze to Golgol.
"Heh!"
A laugh escaped him unbidden. He had no choice but to admit it.
"I lost."
A complete defeat. Carelessness? That was no excuse. On a battlefield, a single moment of carelessness meant death.
Golgoooooool—!
Golgol's roar rolled out across the blue sky.
From that day on, Golgol recovered its confidence.
Golgolgolgol.
During training on the grounds it would rattle with cheerful laughter, and whenever soldiers startled at its changed appearance it would casually strike a pose. At the same time its swordsmanship advanced by leaps and bounds.
This is a good thing, right?
Of course it is.
No—I keep feeling like experience points that shouldn't be stacking are stacking.
Every time Golgol practiced that unorthodox version of Arch Falaon's greatsword technique, my own joints ached in sympathy. You know the feeling—just imagining fingernails on a chalkboard is enough to send shivers through your whole body. Golgol's heretical Falaon greatsword art felt exactly like that. If mere imagination was this bad, what would it be like to actually perform?
Still, there may come a day when you need it.
Me?
I had the Goltikmu Trio and the Valhalla Skeletons protecting me. More than that, I had the ancestor's shield, Kracion.
No one knows how a person's life will turn. A greatsword art that bizarre can create variables. Not a bad thing.
Mm. All right.
I nodded quietly. On that point, at least, I agreed.
Watching Golgol regain its spirit left me satisfied—yet a new problem had appeared.
Now Tiktak is sulking.
That day, Tiktak had returned from a happy outing in the village only to see the transformed Golgol and fall into shock. It had even glared at me with pure resentment, as if asking, So this is why you told me to go out? And that anger still had not cooled.
"Tiktak."
Tik.
"Tiktak…"
Tiriktik!
Tiktak whipped its head away and fled the spot. I watched its retreating back for a moment, then sighed.
What good is a sturdy body to a necromancer, anyway? If you're a fellow necromancer you should be racing to master the Necromantic Essence yourself, not sulking like this…
You really are…
Never mind. I left the ancestor—who was beyond reasoning with—behind and walked on. Still, I could not simply leave it sulking like that.
I need to learn the method for crafting Necromantic Essence as soon as possible.
It would not take long. I had already grasped a fair amount of the feel for it the day I used Pride.
I was heading toward the workshop for training when a voice stopped me.
"Young Master, the Baron is looking for you."
"Yes? What for…?"
"The head of the Malt Trading Company has arrived."
Malt Trading Company. I remembered the name.
That was the merchant house being discussed as a partner for developing the mana stone mine, wasn't it?
I felt it instinctively.
The day we would break ground on the mana stone mine was not far off.