A Bishop Aboard the Holy Train
Thwang!
Prince pinned one of the hellhound's forepaws to the floor with a single hand. He looked like nothing more than a slight boy, yet the sheer strength of that massive chimera couldn't budge him an inch.
[Oh, and this thing. You told me to grab it, so I did.]
Prince plucked the crown from his head and dangled it from the tip of his index finger, swinging it back and forth. It wasn't a copy conjured with Prince's power — it was the real thing, the one his old master had once worn.
[Are you seriously going to put this thing on?]
"!"
The moment Simon's eyes fell on the crown, tension flooded his vision and he felt his fingertips begin to tremble. He'd hoped the long gap would have dulled the withdrawal, but the craving was as fierce as ever.
Simon answered with a crooked smile.
"I'd rather never use it at all. But you never know."
While Prince and the hellhound grappled for dominance, a crowd of blood zombies came pouring into the passenger car. Lethe reacted instantly, raising her hand to cast a holy spell — but Simon lifted an arm to stop her.
"It's fine."
"What?"
Prince had already set the crown back upon his own head.
Pop!
Prince's pupils flared gold. The dozen-odd zombies that had been charging at them faltered mid-stride, and then their eyes turned gold as well.
A heartbeat later they switched targets, scrambling up onto the hellhound's back.
"What the—? What's wrong with them?"
Lethe lowered her arm, wearing a thoroughly dumbfounded expression.
"Prince is commanding them."
The hellhound thrashed its body and swung its free forepaw in wild arcs, but the zombies clung on with stubborn persistence, latching onto its neck and burrowing across its hide.
Then Simon spread his right hand. Zombies under the command of a legionified Prince could be detonated by their Legion Commander with Corpse Explosion.
'Corpse Explosion!'
KWAAAABOOOM!
The zombies went off in a chain of massive blasts, and the hellhound shrieked in agony, thrashing wildly. Into that split second of opening, Prince straightened his legs, launched himself upward, and drove his fist straight into the beast's face.
CRUNCH!
The enormous hellhound went flying, smashing through an already-shredded wall of the train and tumbling out into the night.
Simon and Lethe let out the same admiring exhale. Prince dropped back to the floor, one hand clamped over his crown to keep it in place.
[Hey~ look at that. You can cast Corpse Explosion without even wearing the crown now?]
"Dad drilled me hard over the break."
The two of them bumped fists. And it was only then that Prince noticed Lethe, pressed flat against the seats like a cat bristling with late-arriving suspicion.
[What's with her? Isn't she a Priest?]
Zap!
Barely a step before Prince could approach, Lethe slapped him across the face with a look of pure revulsion.
"You lunatic! Stay away from me!"
[Ow!]
Prince exploded in fury.
[What is wrong with you, attacking someone you just met?! Simon! Can I kill her?]
"Bear with it. Try to get along."
Lethe swept Prince up and down with a grave, searching gaze.
"...The aura coming off him is definitely undead. But how is he talking?"
"Prince is an Ancient Undead."
At Simon's explanation, Lethe whipped around to stare at him, startled.
"Then you really are a Legion Commander..."
"Yeah. I told you before, remember."
Lethe had never laid eyes on a Legion Commander herself, but she knew the rumors well.
The greatest obstacles standing in the way of the Dark Alliance's conquest of the continent. Beings who could command undead armies numbering in the hundreds of thousands — monsters who wielded the unknown entities called Ancient Undead.
Sparks seemed to fly in Lethe's eyes.
'This guy's pulling ahead of me, isn't he? Ugh, I need to become a Saintess and fast.'
Prince shot Lethe one last glare, then turned his back on her.
[Let's move.]
The three of them carved through the train at speed.
With Prince along, it was child's play. Wearing his crown, he commandeered the zombies and folded them into his own fighting force. The cultists, caught off guard, were cut down from behind by the very zombies they'd trusted.
They were blasting their way down the train car by car when trouble struck.
KWA-AAAM!
One side of the train tore open, and the hellhound — the very one they'd thrown out minutes ago — forced its way back into the car. It had run alongside on its own legs to catch up.
[You just don't quit, do you!]
Prince pulled off his crown and tossed it to Simon.
[I'll take this one. And some friendly advice — the less you use that thing, the better off your mind will be.]
"Advice appreciated."
The moment Simon caught the crown, he stowed it in his subspace pocket.
Two monsters — Prince and the hellhound — collided with a thunderclap, detonations ringing out one after another. Through the chaos, Simon and Lethe pushed on into the next car.
"Ugh! How many of these things are there?!"
Blood Heaven cultists had thrown up a barricade of beds and were hurling blood magic down the aisle. Behind them, a seething mass of zombies stood in reserve.
"Looks like this one'll take a while too."
"We can't keep bleeding time like this. Let's split up."
At Simon's proposal, she cocked her head.
"Split up?"
"You keep pushing through head-on and rescue the hostages. I'll sprint straight up to the roof and make a beeline for the engine room. Once I've secured it, I'll hit them from behind."
It meant that whether Lethe or Simon reached the far end first, their two fronts would inevitably converge somewhere in the middle. Lethe nodded.
"Better than both of us slogging through at a crawl, I suppose."
The plan was set. Simon peeled open the ceiling panel of the passenger car and climbed through.
Clatter-clatter!
A fierce headwind rushed at him in time with the resonant pounding of wheels against track. Shielding his face with an arm, Simon looked around.
Across the fields, the blood zombies were still pouring toward the train, and from the magic circles painted along its hull, more zombies and cultists continued to materialize without pause.
'Keep moving first. Whatever's going on, the engine room will tell me.'
Simon broke into a run.
"Intruder!"
A handful of cultists and zombies were keeping watch on the roof as well.
Sprinting forward, Simon extended his right arm. His subspace yawned open, and the bones of a skeleton spilled out, sheathing his arm seamlessly from shoulder to fingertip.
<Bone Armor — Handgun Mode>
A brand-new technique he'd developed over the break. Simon stretched his arm out and took aim at the zombies charging toward him.
Whiiiine!
The middle of the handgun spun like a cylinder, and bones shot from the muzzle above Simon's wrist like rifle rounds.
Pop-pop-pop! Crack!
Struck by bone bullets flying at blistering speed, the zombies toppled backward where they stood or were knocked clean off the train.
'First time in live combat — not bad at all. Reload!'
The skeleton's Restoration technique even allowed him to recycle his ammunition. The spent bone rounds curved back around and clicked neatly into place between the handgun's spinning cylinder.
Pabababababam!
He ran, hosing the swarming zombies down with bone bullets. Shouts rose from every direction.
"That one! He's a necromancer!"
"Surround him!"
As the cultists closed in from all sides, Simon slammed his left foot into the roof. This time it was Overlord's blades that swept out, flinging every cultist around him clean off the train.
"Hahh! Whew!"
Fighting his way through the chaos, Simon at last reached the front of the Holy Train, near the engine room.
Keeping low like a spy, he crept down along the hull, kicked in a window with both feet, and slipped inside.
He rolled once across the floor, sprang up, and took stock of his surroundings.
"...Ah."
It was the crew's lounge — and the Holy Train's crew lay sprawled across it, drenched in blood.
Simon hurried onward, dashing into the engine room beyond.
'One step too late.'
The engineer — the only person alive who could control the train — lay cold and still as well. As things stood, there was no way to stop it.
Simon scanned the room, wondering if there might be some clue to be found. His gaze snagged on a map lying on the floor.
The same sort of map you'd find pinned in any passenger compartment, showing the scheduled stops — except for a section marked C in red ink. On the printed map it was simply a forest, but someone had drawn a route straight through it by hand in red pen.
'That's the route we came in on. Route C.'
Simon's eyes followed the red line further. At its end: an X.
He had no idea what that place was, but one thing seemed certain — whoever was behind all this had meant to carry the Holy Train and its passengers to that destination.
Which meant the plan had probably been to ferry cultists and zombies ahead, purge every remaining resistance aboard once the train arrived, then take the passengers — trapped with no way to flee — alive.
'But hold on.'
Simon crumpled the map into his trouser pocket, his brow furrowing.
'Where are the inquisitors? How did it come to this before anyone stopped it?'
It was hard to believe that priests this strong had already been defeated — yet judging by the fact that he hadn't crossed paths with a single one, there was a real chance they'd already been wiped out.
Simon left the engine room and moved on. From the engine room to the crew quarters, and from the crew quarters to the inquisitors' lounge.
'...Ah.'
The breath hitched in Simon's throat.
Five inquisitors lay slumped in their chairs, dead and cold, holes punched clean through their chests.
He knew every one of those faces — they'd all been part of his interrogation these past days.
'This was definitely an inside job. Someone on this train betrayed them.'
Just then, a pained groan reached his ears. Simon spun around in alarm — at the far end of the wall, one more inquisitor lay bleeding out, still clinging to life.
It was Metin — the man who had hounded Simon so relentlessly during the interrogations.
'He's still alive!'
Simon rushed over and examined his wounds. He pressed his left hand over the worst of the damage and channeled heal while pulling a potion from his subspace and setting it between Metin's teeth.
Little by little, both internal and external injuries began to mend, and Metin's breathing slowly steadied back toward normal.
'That should have pulled him back from the brink.'
Treatment finished, Simon rose to his feet.
"...Why."
As he moved to cross into the next car, a faint voice came from behind him.
"Why... did you save me? I'm the one who..."
Simon kept walking without answering. Metin spoke again.
"Be careful of something very small. A single drop of blood. Smaller than you think."
Simon's footsteps halted.
"...A Bishop of the Blood Heaven Cult is aboard this train."
Simon stared at him in silence. Having said all he could, Metin laid his head back against the floor and panted for breath.
Storing the warning away in his mind, Simon headed for the next car.
Clatter! Clatter!
A fierce battle had clearly raged through this one — the walls were caved in, wind howling through the gaps, and the roar of the speeding train rang out loud and clear. Blood spattered every surface.
'Doesn't look like there's anything left worth finding here.'
Simon was moving carefully toward the next car when—
'...!'
He caught sight of it: a single, tiny droplet of blood, so small he'd never have noticed if he weren't looking closely, hanging suspended in midair. Simon threw his weight backward and rolled away.
FWOOOOM!
The blood droplet detonated with tremendous force. As Simon retreated, he saw droplets spattered across the floor and walls as well.
Gritting his teeth, he hit the ground and rolled again.
BOOM! BOOM!
Escaping by the barest of margins, Simon picked himself up, gasping for air.
"Good reflexes."
A man was walking toward him from the far end of the car.
Auburn hair, crimson eyes. His clothes were in rags, but they were unmistakably an inquisitor's garb.
"A mask, out of nowhere... How curious."
The man laughed as he looked at the mask Simon wore.
That this man was the Bishop of the Blood Heaven Cult was obvious even without any briefing. He simply radiated the presence of overwhelming strength.
"I am Aloken, Bishop of the Blood Heaven Cult. You appear to be a necromancer. Why, then, do you attack us?"
Simon's eyes hardened.
"Being a necromancer means I'm obligated to help you, is that it?"
"Not necessarily. But necromancers meeting in enemy territory like this — shouldn't kin look after kin?"
The man raised his arm.
"The inquisitors and priests we've eliminated here — when war breaks out, every one of them becomes a burden the Dark Alliance no longer has to carry. By any measure of war, we've scored a magnificent victory—"
"That logic only holds in wartime."
Cutting Aloken off, Simon lowered into a stance, his face twisted with fury.
"You're nothing but a terrorist."