I'm The Only Necromancer In This Cultivation World-Chapter 32: Hunting A Dangerous Criminal

Someone with a price on their head wouldn’t stay in the same place for long, especially in a mountain. Aiden reaches into his pouch and pulls out the map he bought earlier. The paper is rough and cheap, the ink already smudged from use.

He spreads it out on the table and leans over it.

"Let’s see..."

His finger traces the jagged line of the mountain range, then moves downward. Just past the foothills, a small mark catches his eye.

A village.

Close enough to the mountain to serve as shelter. Close enough to hide among travelers, hunters, and refugees. A perfect place for someone trying to disappear without leaving the region entirely.

Aiden taps the spot once.

"Yeah," he says, folding the map back up. "If I were him, I’d go there."

He straightens and pulls his cloak tighter around his shoulders.

"Alright," he murmurs, already heading for the door. "Let’s pay that village a visit."

It takes Aiden nearly three hours to reach the village on foot.

By the time he sees the wooden palisade in the distance, his boots are caked with dust and dried mud. The road leading there is narrow and uneven, worn smooth by years of carts, beasts, and wandering people passing through. Unlike the city, there are no stone paths here, just packed earth and the occasional plank laid over shallow ditches.

The village is small but lively. Low wooden houses line the main road, their roofs patched with straw and clay. Chickens scatter at the sound of footsteps, and dogs lie lazily in the shade, only lifting their heads to watch him pass. A few children stop their games to stare, curiosity written all over their faces.

No one looks alarmed.

This close to the city, villagers are already used to outsiders. Hunters, merchants, mercenaries, people come and go every day, stopping to rest, eat, or resupply before heading back into the mountains. To them, Aiden is just another traveler.

A middle-aged woman selling dried meat smiles when she sees him slow down.

"Traveler?" she asks casually. "Need food for the road?"

Further down the street, an old man sits behind a table stacked with bundles of herbs, his eyes sharp despite his age. He watches Aiden with open interest, not suspicion, but calculation. Every stranger is a potential customer.

Aiden quickly understands why.

Outsiders bring money. Coins that circulate through the village, keeping it alive. Every traveler who stops to buy food, rent a room, or hire a guide means another day the village prospers.

A young man hauling water bows slightly as he passes. "If you need a place to stay, the inn’s near the well," he says, practiced and polite.

Aiden gives a small nod in return.

This village isn’t poor, but it isn’t rich either. It survives by being useful. A safe stop between the city and the mountains. A place where people lower their guard, just a little.

Aiden heads straight for the inn.

It’s the largest building in the village, easy to spot from a distance. Two floors tall, made of dark timber and stone, with a faded signboard creaking gently in the wind. The sound of voices and clinking bowls spills out through the open door, warm and inviting after the long walk.

Inside, the air smells of broth, roasted grain, and cheap wine.

Aiden steps in calmly, not in a hurry. He already knows what the target looks like. There’s no need to rush, only to wait.

He takes a seat near the corner of the common hall, where his back is against the wall and the stairs to the second floor are clearly in view. From here, he can see everything without being obvious about it.

"Just something light," he says to the innkeeper when she approaches. "Whatever’s hot."

Moments later, a small bowl of stew and a piece of flatbread are placed in front of him. Steam rises slowly as he lifts the spoon, taking his time with each bite. The food is simple but filling, exactly what you’d expect from a village this close to the city.

While he eats, his eyes move.

Travelers come and go through the front door, hunters with bows slung over their backs, merchants wiping dust from their boots, a pair of rough-looking men who glance around too much before choosing a table. None of them match the face he’s looking for.

Every so often, someone walks up the stairs to the second floor. A servant carrying fresh towels. A man holding a wineskin. A woman leading a child by the hand.

Aiden watches them all, memorizing footsteps, posture, and timing.

He doesn’t stare. Just casual glances. The kind that blend into the background of a busy inn.

After some time, Aiden finally sees him.

The man comes down the stairs without a hint of caution, his steps steady and unhurried. No hood. No attempt to hide his face. He moves like someone who knows exactly how dangerous he is, and knows no one here can do anything about it.

Aiden pauses mid-sip.

That’s him.

The target looks to be in his late thirties, broad-shouldered, with a thick scar running from the corner of his eye down to his jaw. His clothes are worn but well kept, practical rather than flashy. A blade hangs at his waist, not decorative, the grip polished smooth from years of use. Even without drawing it, the weapon radiates menace.

The moment the man steps into the common hall, the atmosphere subtly changes.

Conversations lower. A few villagers glance his way, then quickly look down at their bowls. The innkeeper stiffens for just a second before forcing a smile and greeting him like a regular.

Aiden watches quietly from his seat.

’So he really doesn’t bother hiding,’ Aiden thinks. ’That kind of confidence only comes from strength. He must be a practitioners too.’

He remembers the bounty board, the single parchment pinned higher than the rest. The reward amount written in bold ink, far above the others. The warning scrawled beneath it, as if the guild clerk had hesitated before writing it.

Extremely dangerous.

Responsible for multiple deaths.

Uncaptured for over two years.

No one had succeeded in that time. Many had tried. Some never came back.