Lich for Hire

Chapter 285: Trouble on the Horizon

The first time a mortal broke the sound barrier, and the first time a mortal sustained supersonic flight over long distances...

Ambrose found the sensation of flying through the sky exhilarating. He could feel the air form turbulent streams as it rushed past him.

Exhilarating, yes, but far from perfect.

His armor wasn't exactly aerodynamic. If he redesigned it with a fighter jet's streamlined shape, his speed could increase even further.

The infernal knight armor was still controlled by that flame wraith. At supersonic speeds, the wraith's control became unstable and erratic. It was probably dizzy from the constant vibrations coming from its frame.

Even his mithril body wasn't suited for such conditions. He could feel certain parts and joints being weathered by the strain.

"No wonder no one studies flight," Ambrose muttered. "Teleportation is so much easier and has none of these problems."

After about an hour, he had no choice but to descend for repairs. Otherwise he might literally have come apart in midair.

"Where am I...? Probably just past the desert..." He sighed. "I've always used teleportation circles. Never have I actually tried flying across an entire country like this."

Though he had traveled widely, the world was vast. This region was unfamiliar to him.

"The repairs will take about ten minutes... but why do I suddenly have a bad feeling about this?"

Normally, he would retreat into his personal space to carry out repairs, where time could be accelerated and any danger isolated.

But not this time. The four divine domains couldn't be placed inside his personal space. He had hidden the boxes within his armor instead.

The God of Alchemy had explicitly warned him not to expose those boxes to temporal or spatial manipulation. If they broke, the sealed domains would be released.

In that case, one of two things would happen: either they would return to the Spider Queen, or some lucky (or unlucky) soul nearby would fuse with them and ascend on the spot.

In other words, Ambrose had no choice but to conduct repairs out here in the wilderness.

Logically, simple maintenance shouldn't have caused any trouble, but his instincts suggested otherwise.

At least it wasn't immediately life-threatening danger, but he could sense a vague omen of trouble, the kind that would linger.

A diviner's intuition rarely failed. If trouble was coming, it couldn't be avoided. After a brief pause, Ambrose swapped into his skeletal body and cloaked himself in an illusion, taking on the appearance of an old man.

Even if he couldn't avoid trouble entirely, disguising himself as a passing alchemist might help.

With that, he got to work.

More than a dozen Mage Hands moved in perfect coordination, dismantling the armor like a professional repair crew. The damaged components were quickly removed within minutes.

He had disassembled and reassembled this suit so many times that the process came effortlessly. Any other alchemist would have been impressed.

But just as he began the repairs, a small caravan emerged from the nearby woods and stopped right in front of him.

There were two donkey carts carrying five people in total. They wore filthy coarse cloth, and their skin was dark and wrinkled—local farmers, by all appearances.

Just civilians?

Civilians shouldn't have posed him any threat.

As Ambrose pondered, the group began whispering among themselves.

"An alchemist! I've seen those constructs before. They're called magical automata, aren't they?"

"Looks broken."

"Why would an old man be fixing something like that out here?"

"Should we take a look?"

......

They pulled the carts to a stop and approached him with friendly smiles. "Master Alchemist, need a hand? If it's broken, we can help you transport it to the city."

"No need," Ambrose replied calmly. "I'll have it fixed soon enough."

Despite his refusal, they climbed down anyway, grinning as they surrounded him.

"No trouble at all! It'll just cost you a few coppers for the transport."

"Yeah, we've handled these machines before. Won't damage it, that's for sure!"

......

Two of them reached for the armor, as if insisting on helping.

But Ambrose didn't look at them. He turned instead to the three farmers behind him.

They froze, then hurriedly tried to hide their hands.

It was too late. Ambrose had already sensed the short blades they held.

The two in front were just bait. The three in the back were ready to rush him the moment he was distracted.

Against an ordinary alchemist, the ambush might have worked.

Most spellcasters couldn't afford defensive gear that would trigger automatically. Caught unprepared, many wouldn't even be able to cast a shield before a blade pierced their heart.

Judging by their coordination, this wasn't the first time these "farmers" had pulled off such a ploy.

Ambrose flicked his fingers. Five dark red magic missiles streaked out, striking each of them with perfect precision.

All five collapsed, dead where they stood. Commoners might take a mage by surprise, but if the mage could react in time, only slaughter awaited them.

Ambrose had left mountains of corpses in his wake. If someone tried to kill him, he would kill without hesitation—unless he couldn't.

Still, the unease remained.

He'd been ambushed countless times in his life. This alone hardly qualified as trouble.

Ambrose shook his head. There was little he could do. He returned to his repairs.

Soon enough, the armor was restored. He soared back into the sky, heading once more toward the Court of the Silver Moon.

By the time a young man and woman arrived on horseback, the bodies had gone cold.

Hard labor had aged the young woman before her time, until she seemed like a flower wreathed in dust.

The young man, by contrast, was strikingly handsome. He was almost divine, with a faint radiance that clung to him.

"It's Old Carter and the others!"

The young woman leapt from the horse and rushed to the bodies.

Moments later, she was sobbing.

The young man crouched to examine the corpses. "Magic Missile," he concluded. "Arcane residue... mixed with elements of darkness and the undead. The killer was likely a necromancer."

"A necromancer? What's that?" the young woman asked, confused. To her, all mages might as well be noble lords. She didn't have a need to differentiate between them.

"A spellcaster who manipulates the dead," he explained. "But why not take the bodies too?"

Tears streaming down her face, the young woman pleaded, "Allen, you have to find the culprit. We have to avenge them!"

The young man was none other than Allen Watson.

In the Lyon Empire, his name was well known.

The youngest legendary paladin in history, a disciple of the Silvermoon Knight, and son of the Empire's High Inquisitor... In talent and lineage alike, he stood unrivaled among his generation.

Yet Allen was now a traitor just one step away from being placed on the lists of Lyon's wanted.

Allen had anticipated the consequences of his departure. He had left Lyon, crossed the desert as a common adventurer, and arrived in the lands of a newly established dwarven kingdom.

He could no longer accept Lyon's growing extremism, but he didn't know where else to go. Half-starved, ragged, he had stumbled into this poor village.

The young woman had given him food, and he had stayed.

The few villagers formed a close-knit group.

The dead men had been respected. They were generous and always helped others in need. When they failed to return from a grain delivery, Allen had come searching for them—too late.

So this was the life of ordinary people. Death could strike at any moment.

Allen felt his understanding of the world deepen at a bitter cost.

He sighed, then said gently, "Go back. Tell the others to retrieve the bodies. I'll handle the killer."

He followed the lingering trace of dark magic, drawing the crude iron sword at his waist.

It was nothing special, little more than a poorly forged blade with an uneven edge.

But the moment he unsheathed it, his entire presence changed. With a single swing, he vanished and reappeared hundreds of meters away, at the edge of the young woman's sight.

Another swing, another flash, and another leap across the land...

This was Allen's legendary boon. Once his senses locked onto a target, distance became meaningless. He could appear instantly and deliver an unavoidable strike.

Even seasoned orc champions had struggled against this technique. He hadn't drawn his sword in a long time, but now, he felt stronger than ever.

Leaving Lyon had been the right choice. His understanding of the Holy Light had deepened.

"Necromancer," he murmured, his eyes cold. "When I find you, you'll pay for this."