Welcome to the Holy Federation, Necromancer
Rumble, rumble!
The camel-drawn freight caravan set off. The broker, disguised as a merchant, slipped naturally into the front row of the column, and the long procession of trade wagons trundled toward the border of the Holy Federation.
And inside a cramped wooden crate strapped to one of those wagons, Simon and Lethe lay pressed against each other from shoulder to toe.
They had fought over positioning more times than either could count.
Sitting was simply out of the question. The crate was a long, narrow rectangle, just barely big enough for two people to lie down and curl up inside it.
So they'd switched to lying face to face — which put their faces far too close together. Lethe had shrieked and beaten Simon bloody within five seconds. Rejected.
They tried reversing the arrangement, but lying curled up back-to-belly meant their faces ended up pointed at each other's legs, producing an unbearable sort of awkwardness. Rejected again.
They attempted lying back to back, knees drawn to their chests, then legs stretched out instead — every variation only shrank the space further and made things more miserable.
In the end, they returned to the face-to-face position, legs interlaced, curled up as tightly as they could manage. It was the best of a bad lot.
"......"
"......"
Rumble, rumble.
The grinding of wagon wheels filled the crate. Inside it, Simon's face had flushed red all the way down his neck.
'No, this is way too close.'
The lack of space was one thing, but they were at a distance where he could catch her scent. Every breath he took carried the warmth of hers, and it made his throat itch.
Since he couldn't exactly forbid breathing altogether, they'd agreed to control only their eyes. Simon stared at the ceiling; Lethe stared at the floor. She had threatened him repeatedly that if their eyes met even once, it would be a capital offense.
"......"
Lethe, who had thrown such a tantrum at the start, now seemed to have surrendered to fate. Her eyes were lowered, her cheek pressed flat against the crate floor, and she lay as motionless as a corpse. She had given up on thinking entirely, it seemed — chosen to become an inanimate object in a box.
Simon, meanwhile, was sweating through the heat and the suffocating closeness when Lethe suddenly raised both hands, pressed them neatly together in front of her face, closed her eyes, and began to pray in a very tiny voice.
"O great Goddess. I shall accept with gratitude and endure this terrible trial You have laid upon me. For in defying Your will I have not only consorted with the wicked but now guide him toward Your sacred land, this sinner deserves to be struck down by lightning on the spot and die."
Murmur, murmur, murmur.
Simon let out a silent, hollow laugh. So this was how she endured it — through faith.
If she could reframe even this unbearable torment as a trial from the Goddess and soldier through it, well, he supposed he could grudgingly respect it as her own personal coping technique.
"But O Goddess. Might You rather just drop the lightning on me? Or cast me into a filthy pigsty to roll around in — why on earth would You sentence me to lie face to face with this revolting creature? Blasphemous as it is, I confess I am a little resentful."
"Listening to that is putting me in a bad mood."
"Shut it. Don't eavesdrop on my prayers."
Rumble! Rumble!
Two hours passed with them trapped in the crate.
By now Simon truly felt as though he and the wagon had become one body. I am the wagon, and the wagon is me. He was experiencing, firsthand, what it meant to be cargo.
'...I didn't realize two hours could be this long. Maybe I should try making conversation.'
People outside were murmuring loudly among themselves, and the noise of the wheels was deafening — a low murmur between the two of them ought to be safe enough.
Simon cautiously addressed her.
"Le—"
"Shut your mouth."
Her breath drifted out and tickled his throat, and the words died right there in his own.
"Just stay quiet for once."
No chance whatsoever. Rejected before the conversation had even begun.
Simon gave up on talking to her and turned his gaze away.
Then another twenty minutes passed.
He was mentally reviewing everything he'd learned in his classes when—
"...Ugh, honestly."
Lethe's voice reached him. When Simon turned his gaze, she was glancing over at him with an expression of pure mortification.
"A grown man getting worked up over that. I mean, aren't you supposed to try at least twice before giving up?"
"Try what?"
"...Ah, damn it. Forget it."
She lowered her eyes and said quietly, "Why did you call out to me earlier?"
"Because I wanted to talk."
"...Go ahead, then."
Truth be told, Lethe seemed to be finding these hours excruciating too. Boredom was the lesser problem — being sealed inside this swaying crate with nothing to do but stew in her own thoughts was mental agony.
Simon smiled and opened his mouth. "It's nothing much. Just something personal—"
"Ah, whisper it! Watch your breath, watch your breath! Every time it touches my neck I get goosebumps!"
"Fine, then I'll just keep my mouth shut."
"...Personal what?"
Secretly pleased by how uncharacteristically clingy she was being, Simon spoke. "How did you and my mother meet?"
"Aha."
It seemed he'd chosen a good topic, because the corners of Lethe's mouth lifted ever so slightly. "So you finally ask the important question."
"I've asked a few times. You always said you wouldn't dirty a precious memory by sharing it with some necromancer."
"...I never said—ahem! I don't like it. But just this once, I'll make an exception and tell you."
Lethe had been a war orphan.
The village where she was born sat in a small mountain hollow along the border between the Holy Federation and the Dark Alliance — disputed territory. Once, a band of necromancers who had lost comrades to a Priest came through in their fury and razed the village to the ground.
Lethe, three years old at the time, survived by hiding inside a cramped cabinet. But the attack took her parents from her. And that day, she witnessed something that would haunt her for the rest of her life.
The necromancers, cackling as though it were great fun, raised the corpses of the villagers who had been kind to her — and of her own mother and father — into skeletons before her eyes.
The necromancers eventually moved on, but the terrified Lethe could not bring herself to step a single foot outside the house.
Days passed, and as the little girl hovered on the edge of starvation, someone entered the house.
Lethe scrambled to hide in the wardrobe, but the visitor knocked gently on its door, speaking a few soft words to reassure her, and slowly opened it. And in that moment, Lethe—
I'm sorry.
—met a miracle.
I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. We are so, so sorry.
Her name was Anna Cross.
By then, Anna had completely severed ties with Ephnel, joined the Dark Alliance, and even borne Richard's child. Yet even while rebuilding her life, she made time to slip back to her homeland, the Holy Federation, whenever she could.
She had given away the enormous fortune she'd amassed during her years of active service, donating it all back to society. With her own money, she founded more than twenty monasteries across the land.
These were nothing like the ordinary monasteries that presided over a village's worship and collected tithes — they were, in essence, orphanages. Children who had lost their parents to war and battle were taken in and raised there.
A few times a year, Anna would conceal her identity and cross into the Holy Federation to help with the monasteries' work.
It was precisely then that Anna and Lethe came to know one another.
Teacher Anna!
Lethe clung to Anna — the woman who had saved her life — as though she were her own mother, and Anna adored the girl in return.
When I grow up, I want to become a wonderful Priest just like you, Teacher!
At those words, Anna smiled a smile that was hard to read. No — you must become an even better Priest than I am.
But they say you were the Saintess of Miracles! There's no Priest in the whole world better than you!
At that, Anna stroked the girl's hair with sorrowful eyes and said softly, I made far too many people sad and hurt. Don't ever be like me, Lethe.
No matter what Anna said, Lethe's role model was Anna herself.
She built a devout and steadfast faith at the monastery, endured the 19 Tribulations, and became a promising Priest at a remarkably young age. The elders, captivated by her talent, all exclaimed over her as the return of Anna Cross.
Though she never managed to break Anna's record as the youngest, for Lethe, merely being measured against Anna by her elders was happiness enough. She continued to grow without pause, and at last she entered Ephnel as Special Admission No. 1.
"When I learned the truth about Teacher Anna... it did come as quite a shock."
Lethe's voice had gone hollow. "The woman who saved my life. The person I respect most in this world. That legendary genius Saintess — married to a necromancer, and she even bore his child."
Her voice began to boil. "She stepped down from her seat as Saintess for a mere necromancer, caught an incurable illness that could kill her any day, and now toils away in the middle of nowhere with nothing to show for it. Honestly, I could never understand her."
"......"
Simon was too stunned to say anything at all.
'So that's why Lethe hates necromancers so much.'
A horrific memory buried so deep in her heart it had scarred into trauma. Watching her own parents become undead before her eyes while the necromancers giggled like it was entertainment — who could possibly avoid harboring hatred after that?
And on top of it, years of religious education had stoked her hostility toward necromancers to the absolute extreme. The way she'd treated Simon and Richard, harsh as it was, had probably been Lethe doing her genuine best.
"But who can ever predict how the world turns, hm?"
Her gaze shifted to Simon. "Here I am, face to face with that very necromancer, our bodies pressed against each other in a box. Truly, I could bite my tongue off and die."
"......"
Part of Simon — as a fellow necromancer — wanted to apologize to her on behalf of the ones who had toyed with her parents' corpses. But such an apology would be empty, meaningless. It carried no substance and no significance, and it would bring her no comfort whatsoever.
So instead—
"I'll work hard. Hard enough to change the way you see us."
As always, all Simon could offer was effort.
"Whatever you do, it will never change."
Lethe snorted. And yet her tone was a good deal gentler than the contempt and mockery of before.
Tap.
Both of them froze mid-sentence. Someone was knocking directly on the crate.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Five short knocks in quick succession. The signal meant only one thing.
"Get ready. We're entering the Gate of Divinity now."
The Gate of Divinity was, simply put, a checkpoint. If any evil energy lurked on a person or in their cargo, the Gate's color would cloud over, and inquisitors would swarm in to search on the spot.
After the broker gave the signal, the wagons slowed. The caravan crept forward in single file, each wagon passing through the Gate in turn.
"Nervous?"
At Lethe's offhand question, Simon simply smiled. "I'm confident."
He raised his divinity, wrapping his entire body in it like a shroud so that the pulse of the Core at his heart would go undetected.
Even speaking in a low voice now felt like too much of a risk. The two of them kept their mouths shut and moved only their eyes.
Thump!
Someone had slapped a palm against the wagon, and the sound rang out loud enough to startle Lethe — he could see her clapping a hand over her mouth. One accidental noise and they'd be discovered instantly.
Thud!
Now someone had climbed onto the wagon itself.
'Oh, come on. They're not doing this on purpose, are they?'
Lethe struggled to choke down a murderous urge to kill everyone in earshot. Simon rolled his eyes upward, listening.
The man who'd climbed aboard was chatting loudly with someone — when the broker protested about damage to his merchandise, the man grudgingly climbed back down.
'So now we're going through the Gate.'
As a user of divinity, Simon was confident he wouldn't be caught. But that didn't stop the nerves.
Then Lethe stirred and wriggled closer to him. Feeling her breath on his skin, Simon went rigid.
"Hold still."
Lethe pressed both hands flat against his chest. A current of divinity flowing out of her body spread over him like a blanket, covering him from head to toe.
And a moment later—
Whoosh!
Simon felt his body pass through something alien and unseen. They had made it through the Gate of Divinity unscathed.
'Haaah, we're alive.'
The moment Simon exhaled in relief, she giggled and wiggled against him.
"Welcome, necromancer."
The lilting voice felt impossibly close. With her index finger resting against her lips, she winked one eye at him in the darkness.
"To the Holy Federation."