Sir Rshakh and the Little Necromancer
Sir Rshakh was a knight from the church, wandering the lands in search of black mages. And just moments ago, he'd smashed through a pack of undead wolves that had been attacking a shepherd. So, in a tiny village like this, the sudden appearance of a necromancer wasn't all that strange.
But getting caught by the locals? That was fucking weird.
"Any dead?"
"None."
Sir Rshakh and Ian exchanged even more baffled looks. Sure, mages were weak in close combat, but they always had some trump card up their sleeve. Capturing one without a single casualty? Either the necromancer was a total greenhorn or a complete pushover. One or the other.
"Suspicious. Surrendering to commoners like that."
Sir Rshakh muttered.
"Think they've got some scheme?"
Ian tossed out a half-baked theory. As a former modern guy, the existence of this bizarre necromancer didn't feel off to him at all. Why? In novels and comics, brainy villains let themselves get caught on purpose, then pull off their real plot from behind the scenes.
Of course, from his endless experience with medieval folks so far, it was way more likely this was just some batshit crazy black mage. A genius villain surrendering to the cops on purpose? That was comic book stuff. In reality, 99% of criminals were idiots who tripped while running from the law.
A necromancer caught by villagers due to some boneheaded mistake... that was the most plausible winner.
"Where's the necromancer?"
"In, in the warehouse."
This was a small village—no prison in sight. The sturdiest building around, a warehouse, was doing double duty.
"Oh dear, what a mess this is..."
"At least the knight's here now!"
As Sir Rshakh and Ian passed by, the villagers buzzed with whispers. They didn't even bother lowering their voices, apparently not counting Ian as human. Thanks to that, he got to eavesdrop on their every thought.
"Always gave me the creeps."
"To think that kid could kill..."
'Kid?'
Ian cocked his head at the prickly word. Was the necromancer a child or something?
"Be careful!"
The village chief, trembling like a leaf, flung open the warehouse door. He reeked of fear toward the mage—especially a death-mystery wielder. Killing her rashly might bring some curse down on them. So, they'd improvised with the warehouse.
"You're the necromancer?"
Sir Rshakh demanded in a frosty tone.
A voice echoed back from the darkness.
"...No."
Sir Rshakh blinked in surprise.
'A little girl?'
The necromancer's voice belonged to a young girl. Ian stayed calmer than the knight, though. Thanks to his high darkness affinity, he could pierce the gloom.
'It's a girl.'
She was huddled in the shadows, but Ian saw her clear as day. Jet-black hair, jet-black eyes. Skin so pale and white it contrasted sharply. Maybe sixteen? If you lowballed it, middle-school age. High school at most.
"Come out and show your face."
Sir Rshakh growled, sounding ready to draw his sword any second. Ian was impressed by the dripping killing intent.
Damn. Sir Rshakh doesn't mess around with black mages!
Even against a kid, he goes all out!
Truth be told, to Ian's eyes, the knight looked a tad ridiculous—like a full-grown warrior scared of a tiny girl. But no one else saw it that way. A mage was a mage, age be damned. Who knew what freakish shit she'd pull?
"..."
The girl stepped forward as ordered. The soldiers gasped at her face.
"Gah...!"
"Witch! That's a witch, right?!"
She was still a girl, but her beauty was stunning. They pretended otherwise, but they caught the decadent allure and maturity in her pale features. The fragile vulnerability that stirred protective instincts.
These lolicon bastards!
Talking like that about a high-schooler!
...You might think that. But back in Korea, tons of girl group idols debuted at middle or high school age. Once you hit that point, it was plenty to spark attraction. Biologically, it made sense—post-puberty, pregnancy possible. Not weird at all.
Of course, anyone into 12- or 13-year-olds was straight-up lolicon trash.
In this medieval fantasy world, 16- or 17-year-old marriages happened all the time. A weird vibe between crime and custom, you could say.
"Sir Rshakh! Look! She's a witch! A witch!"
The girl eyed the soldiers with dead black eyes, like she'd endured hell.
"...I'm not a witch."
"D-don't talk to me, witch!"
The soldiers freaked out, yelling.
"Sir Rshakh! No need to look further! That's the necromancer who summoned the undead wolves!"
Ian figured Sir Rshakh would draw and behead her in one stroke. Church knights had that vibe: heretic? Chop.
But surprisingly, the knight held back. He observed her with far more caution than before.
"Name. And your crime."
"Maria. And my crime was..."
The girl who called herself Maria trembled, then forced out the words.
"...Murder. I committed it."
"Murder?"
"Yes..."
Sir Rshakh interrogated Maria methodically. Her name was Maria. An orphan taken in by the village herbalist grandma. Until recently, she'd lived alone with the old woman, but last year grandma died, so she became a maid in a local house.
Up to there, classic empire orphan tale. In a medieval empire where war and death were daily bread, parentless kids were a dime a dozen.
But the weird part came next.
"Who did you kill?"
"...My master's son."
The soldiers erupted at Maria's words.
"Ungrateful wretch!"
"They fed and housed her, and she kills their son?!"
Fair reaction. An orphan girl alone—what could she do? Get enslaved, sell her body, probably. The family that took her in was a benefactor.
But Maria killed their son.
"...It wasn't intentional."
Maria said calmly, eyes downcast. It only enraged the soldiers more.
"You vile bitch!"
"Sir Rshakh! Cut down this murderer now!"
The knight quieted them.
"Silence, all of you. Maria. What do you mean, not intentional?"
Maria sighed softly.
"I... blacked out for a moment. When I came to, he was dead."
"Blacked out?"
She was claiming diminished capacity—diminished seaweed, whatever.
Ian pondered. Shady as hell. Close your eyes, open them, someone's dead? Real precise statement there.
"The people thought I killed him with necromancy, so they locked me here."
Sir Rshakh asked coldly.
"You're saying you're not a necromancer?"
Maria knelt meekly.
"Yes, sir. I know no necromancy."
Naturally, Sir Rshakh's gaze shifted to Ian.
"Mage Ian. What do you think?"
Ian shrugged.
"No clue?"
Ian lied. He had a hunch...
The air around Maria reeked of death's mystery.
But he kept quiet. If she was a real powerhouse necromancer, they'd need to evacuate folks first, then fight. She could slaughter the village and raise an undead horde if serious.
A true necromancer wouldn't get nabbed without prep.
That needed private discussion with Sir Rshakh.
Meanwhile, the soldiers wanted snap judgment.
"Sir Rshakh! Don't listen to that bitch!"
"We can't punish without investigation."
"She's obviously a witch! What good's listening?!"
"Hm. From your tone, you must be a magic expert."
The knight turned on the soldier, who faltered.
"Explain. Why do you think Maria's a witch?"
The soldier stammered.
"Sh-she looks different from us... black eyes, black hair! Gotta be devil spawn!"
A personal jab that hit Ian right in the spleen.
"So that's it, huh? Sir Rshakh?"
"Tch. Brings back childhood memories."
Ian flashed back briefly.
Ahh... the bittersweet days when the neighborhood kids teased him for his black hair!
His mood soured.
"Black eyes and hair are common as dirt in the southern Coral Sea. You calling the Coral Sea a devil's den?"
The soldier babbled incoherently.
"M-maybe... sorta...?"
"The Papal Court sits right above it?"
"Gah...!"
Ian eyed Sir Rshakh.
Sir. Why drag this moron around?
The knight cleared his throat calmly.
"His Holiness's soldiers aren't all plucked from the Vatican area. Some haven't seen the Coral Sea—cut him slack."
"Even so, calling the Papal seat a devil pit is..."
No way a grunt outsmarts a mage with book smarts. The soldier paled and bowed low.
"S-sorry! Forget I said that... please!"
Tsk tsk. Empire idiots.
Ian felt the pain of no public education deep in his bones. If there'd been a school, he wouldn't have gotten shit for black hair!
...Well, he'd have gotten it in school instead. Curse of rare hair color.
Ian tossed casually at Maria.
"Looks like you and I share ancestors."
"...Same ancestors?"
"Yeah. Golden Empire folk."
"..."
Maria stared silently at Ian's face. But he'd already turned away.
"Sir Rshakh. Let's head back."
"Right."
They locked Maria back in and headed to the chief's house.
"H-how'd it go?"
The chief blurted the second he saw Sir Rshakh. Forgetting to grovel—must be dying of curiosity.
"Did you handle it?"
Even Ian found the chief's tone grating. For a Papal knight, it was outright rude.
"Insolent. I'm not your underling, chief."
"S-sorry!"
Sir Rshakh ignored him and explained unilaterally.
"There are some suspicious circumstances around the girl Maria, that's true. But we can't punish on suspicion alone."
"...Huh?"
The chief looked like he'd heard alien gibberish.
Why no punishment??? She's a necromancer by all signs... just lop off her head!
"We'll gather evidence proving Maria's a necromancer from now on."
"No, sir! She is one! Evidence? What even is that?"
"Don't know what evidence is?"
"No, sir!"
"Then shut up."
"..."
The chief clamped it instantly. Great at following orders, that one.
"Lord Ian. I need your help."
Sir Rshakh didn't trust the others. Just parrots squawking "Maria's sus, kill her!"
Ian was different. Time for mage brains.
"Compensation will be generous. Cooperate with the investigation."
Ian pondered briefly.
"Fine. I'll help."