Academic gathering with a lich-Chapter 660 - 611 New Hamlet

```

[The Outer One]

This was not the word spoken by Serio; in the absolutely independent secret realm, the name he recited was an even deeper and darker name. When that pronunciation appeared at the ear of a living being, it would flow and fester an indescribable malice, a rebellion condensed to the extreme, as if your own skin had betrayed you, you could feel your skin licking the flesh beneath it. The tone was so bizarre and eccentric that no written name could capture it.

It was like an illusionary fear deliberately concocted by someone, sowing the sensation of palpitations in an instant.

The only thing that survived in memory in written form, remembered by the soul as a name, was...

[The Outer One]

The journalist did not interpret this absurd terror as Serio’s trickery, although he desperately wanted to do so.

[Transaction... completed.] The aged, overlapping, and inhuman voice read from the journalist’s mouth, his own self, controlled by the power of the pact, producing a disquieting pause. The Pact-Maker had agreed to this transaction, which meant that what Serio had said was true, and behind him, there was an existence that even the rules would pause for.

Pact-Maker Sperg Yesh had thought that all these strange phenomena would come to an abrupt halt here, but he was wrong, this transaction was just beginning.

In the mystical realm, representing mystery, a brass clock was embedded behind the journalist, with chains sloping from the clock penetrating every corner of the realm like a chain drive structure, or like a cage binding the mystery. With every swing of the hands, the chains would advance one click like a well-wound machine.

The clock of [Mystery] was such a precise existence, it functioned meticulously and normally until Serio recited that secret.

The hands paused.

After three seconds of silence, the absolutely independent mystical realm began to spiral out of control, the hands on the clock rapidly rewinding, the rusty and dry chains exuded black mist, no longer taut, twisting like living things, slicing through the entire realm at a frenzied pace.

"What have you done, stop it!" The control chains of the Pact-Maker went haywire, and he finally managed to cry out in horror.

Serio did not respond to him, and the journalist noticed that Serio’s own expression was equally terrible.

Ten seconds.

At the instant the eleventh second started, all anomalies disappeared, changing without a trace, the abrupt transformation was as if everything before had been an illusion.

Serio revealed his secret.

And the Pact-Maker had to give a reward.

[I accept your secret, and I will give you the secret you want.]

Serio looked at the controlled journalist with a mocking smile.

"You know what I want, the pact always provides a value that satisfies the client," he said.

[I will tell you that secret, a secret of the same, utmost level of concealment.]

[Holy Light’s Sorrow.]

...

The sunshine no longer favored the thorny vine; the sunset glow, distorted by Andrey’s barrier, turned into a lurid red. The sounds of explosions and quarrels disappeared, it was the time for the undeath apprentice to start their lesson.

Serio and Mr. Journalist appeared in the original corridor, looking at the exhausted Mr. Journalist, Serio was astonished.

"It’s amazing, the Pact-Maker; to speak out the secret you’ve kept actually made you this weak," he said.

"Mystery is my power, extracting power from within is not pleasant. Even so, don’t expect to defeat me easily," said the journalist.

Serio shook his head without much interest.

```

"The advocates of the rules are always troublesome," Serio put his hood back on and walked toward the shadows of the corridor. "I’ve got what I wanted, and now my flight begins. Goodbye, Mr. Reporter."

"I won’t let you succeed," the reporter slumped on the ground, lifting his head. "Even if I can’t reveal any of the secrets you got from me to anyone, I’ll stop you in my own way."

A smile spread across Serio’s face.

"Help Lyle to grow, Mr. Reporter, only the Evil God can counter another Evil God."

"...You guessed what I plan to do? Is this... also part of your plan? Is Lyle’s growth beneficial to you?"

Serio stretched out his hand from beneath his robe, his arm as pale as a corpse’s, sprouted jewel-like scales, and slowly lifted, transforming into what appeared to be the forepaw of some crawling creature during the process.

"I am Lyle’s other half; our powers are shared. The power of the Dragon King, the nemesis of the Holy Light. I look forward to the day when Lyle becomes the Divine Corpse. You will help me, won’t you, Mr. Reporter? Because that’s your only choice to rid yourself of guilt. Help Lyle grow and pray that he can kill me." Serio disappeared into the shadows, leaving the reporter with the conundrum.

"That secret... damn, Lyle must grow stronger as soon as possible..."

Mr. Reporter draped the tablecloth back over his face and drifted down the corridor toward Andrey.

...

At that moment, Lyle was at the boundary of Hamlet, expressing his wish to visit the lord of New Hamlet to a hunched night watchman carrying an oil lamp.

The eerie human with deep eye sockets and invisible eyeballs chuckled and slowly opened the gates of New Hamlet.

New Hamlet was odd.

In the town center stood a leafless, gaunt death tree; each branch hung with one or two skeletons, dressed in what seemed to be the garb of bandits or marauders. From inside out, the gauntness of the hanging dead increased, some having been dried out for too long.

The strangeness began with those dried corpses and skeletons; they swung from the death tree until the ropes around their necks broke. The fallen Undead crawled up and dragged their ropes toward a congregation area of more Undead or a crypt full of bones.

No one paid them any heed.

Neither the humanoid fungus leaning on the sculptures nor the ugly fish-men in the fountains found the newly transformed bodies out of the ordinary.

Covered in blood, the corrupted Zealots argued outside the shops, each trying to turn the other’s corrupt faith around. Weapons in hand scraped each other’s heads multiple times, but they restrained themselves. They knew their destination wasn’t the embrace of a god but that death tree.

Messy Half-Orcs pushed wooden carts along the streets, collecting the refuse left by other species. They enjoyed those scents. The new lord had zoned their territory to the leeward side a mile outside the town, keeping Hamlet relatively clean and tidy.

All Cannibal Slime Molds wandering the wilds were warmly welcomed, whereas the Cholera-like Fungus spreading spores was stripped of its right to enter the town.

Zealots and bandits roared in the pubs, both thrown out by the barkeep, a retired soldier. Undead perched on tombstones, pointing and laughing loudly at these unfortunate sods with their faces in the mud.

Hamlet had changed, and the man who started it all, Kevin Hamlet, was crouching beside the hanging tree, desolate.

The two horrific Resentful Spirits following him were certainly not human.

"Kevin! Why so down?" It must be the management, Hamlet had amassed many monsters, and Kevin, as a human, must have been under a lot of pressure.

"Lyle, you’re here," Kevin’s eyes brimmed with tears.

"I’ve been pushed out!"

"My subjects have kicked me out of the casino; they accused me of cheating on fabricated charges."

"Damn it, I’m the lord, and I opened that casino!"