Lich for Hire-Chapter 53: Ambrose the Cautious

Alkhemia moved with remarkable speed. In less than a day, every formula and schematic Ambrose had demanded was prepared and delivered to him in full.

Gustavo Flynn understood Ambrose's capabilities all too well, so he made no attempt to tamper with the materials. In that regard, at least, his sincerity was unmistakable.

Along with the delivery, Flynn brought news.

The Knights Penitent had already dispatched an envoy. In three days, they would formally arrive at Alkhemia. Given how long the usual diplomatic song and dance took, Ambrose would have at most five days left. By then, the Knights Penitent would have obtained intelligence on Allen Watson.

Ambrose sat in his laboratory for several hours, skimming through all the schematics and documents, then covering parchment after parchment with rough drafts.

Fortunately, liches neither ate, drank, nor attended to bodily needs. Not a single moment had to be wasted.

Staring at the mountain of drafts before him, Ambrose frowned. "Five days... that's a bit tight. Let's hope Isabel doesn't disappoint me."

With that, he gathered a pile of items and went to find Isabel, who was in the middle of brewing potions.

"Put everything down," Ambrose said.

Isabel jumped in fright. The glass bottle in her hand burst in a puff of smoke, its contents completely ruined.

Before she could even apologize, Ambrose placed two glass containers and several sheets of parchment in front of her.

"Don't speak. Listen carefully. The task ahead is extremely dangerous. If you make even a single mistake, you're dead."

His words were grave enough that Isabel's face went pale at once. She hurriedly pulled out a small notebook, ready to take notes.

Pointing to the two glass containers, Ambrose said, "These contain a strain of the bone-proliferation virus. Have you ever heard of it?"

Isabel shook her head. "No."

"You've gotta read more books," Ambrose said, sighing. "So, this is a failed alchemical product..."

He patiently explained the history of the virus to Isabel.

The bone-proliferation virus was originally meant to be a biological bone-regeneration agent. It had been designed to treat fractures and disabilities by accelerating bone regrowth. Early trials were a resounding success. Too much of a success, as it turned out.

Anyone infected with the virus could rapidly heal from any bone injury. Broken bones would knit themselves back together in seconds; even amputees could regrow the skeletal structure of a missing limb within minutes.

But the effect was too good. A few days after the preliminary injection, every test subject began to show severe side effects.

The virus had no concept of "reasonable wear and tear."

The human body contained over two hundred bones. Merely lying still and breathing would cause subtle wear and tear via friction; this was why knees ached after too much running. This would normally be nothing serious—if not for the virus.

Any damage, no matter how trivial, triggered bone growth and repair.

At first, patients merely felt joint pain, as if they were suffering from severe rheumatism. Over time, their joints would stiffen. Countless bone spurs would erupt from within, piercing muscle and skin, until their entire body calcified into a statue of bone.

The process was irreversible and unimaginably painful.

A perfectly good medical treatment had become a lethal toxin. If not for its high cost and stringent infection conditions, it would have been the perfect murder weapon for home use and travel alike.

"Your task," Ambrose said, "is to cultivate more of this virus for me.

"I've written out an improved cultivation procedure. Follow it exactly. Don't make mistakes, especially when transferring the culture from vessel to vessel. If you infect yourself, you're beyond saving."

Isabel's hands trembled. She was only an apprentice. Was she really being thrown into something this horrifying already?

Seeing her expression, Ambrose added, "Don't be nervous. It's not that infectious. As long as you're careful, you'll be fine. And even if you do get infected, don't panic. Just come find me."

She was just starting to feel a little touched when she realized that something was off. "Master, didn't you just say this virus was incurable?"

"Yes," Ambrose replied matter-of-factly. "But that's fine. I can turn you into undead. Then, you won't feel any pain. As for the bone growth, once you're fully dead and cut off from nutrients, the virus will die soon enough."

Isabel: "..."

Ambrose patted her on the shoulder. "Relax. Skeleton, zombie, wraith—pick whatever you like. If you want to become a death knight, I can even look into that for you."

With that, he left Isabel standing dumbstruck as he hurried out of the laboratory.

There was no time to spare. He still had much to prepare.

Casting Flight, Ambrose headed straight to another laboratory. This one held no bones or herbs—only piles of mechanical components of every size.

He spread out a thick stack of schematics and began selecting parts to assemble.

What he was working on was the City of Alchemy's newest product: a portable magitech cannon. Powered by compressed air, it could fire ordinary rocks as ammunition. The attack was purely physical, capable of bypassing many magical barriers and making it devastating in siege warfare.

Ambrose had long been familiar with the device, but the cannons sold on the market were fitted with anti-tampering measures. If they were disassembled, they would self-destruct. Now, with the schematics in hand, he quickly identified the core of the design: a magical array designed to compress air. The array was exquisitely engineered, with low mana consumption, astonishing efficiency, and, most importantly, high stability. Barrel explosions were exceptionally rare.

This design alone could sell for several million gold. If Alkhemia weren't cornered, it would never have handed over such core technology.

With the detailed schematic in hand, modifying it was simple. Within just a few minutes, Ambrose assembled a long, tubular device. The slender metal tube was a replacement for the original barrel, transforming the cannon into an oddly shaped magitech rifle.

With a snap of his fingers, a Zha'kix Type II skeleton appeared at his feet.

Ambrose expertly detached the creature's scythe-claws and mounted the magitech rifle in their place. It fit perfectly into the bone mounts.

Under Ambrose's control, the modified skeleton raised the barrel and fired.

Whoosh!

Compressed air hurled the bone projectile forward. It struck Ambrose's shield, spinning wildly before freezing in midair.

The skeleton emptied its magazine. Every round was intercepted. Though none pierced the shield, Ambrose was more than satisfied.

"Excellent power. It's stronger than ordinary crossbows. Simple to operate, easy to aim, and no need to design arms to draw a bowstring... The downside is energy consumption. The array only supports nine shots before it's depleted. It's a pity that I don't have time to design swappable energy magazines."

There wasn't enough time to turn every skeletal aberration into a rifleman, but equipping a select few would create an elite force. Even so, Ambrose was desperately short on time. Against paladins, undead were easily countered.

The ideal forces would have been living mercury spirit golems—but even with all his experimental data, there was no way to create them on such short notice.

Ambrose worked swiftly to assemble more magitech rifles. There was still much to prepare, and he intended to ensure that those paladins wouldn't even reach the castle gates.

Just then, the Dullahan walked in, smiling broadly. "Tiga, I've spoken with Una. The tavern's deed has been transferred to you, and she's ready to relocate... Uh, what are you busy with?"

Without looking up, Ambrose replied, "The Knights Penitent will be here soon. I'm preparing for them."

The Dullahan said confidently, "What's there to worry about? You've got me."

Ambrose sighed. "I know. You wouldn't just stand by and let someone kill me, right?"

"Of course not!" The Dullahan thumped his chest. "A few paladins aren't worth mentioning."

Ambrose replied calmly, "But even if you protect me with everything you have, I'll still end up decapitated."

The Dullahan fell silent. The prophecy was terrifying. He immediately abandoned his earlier nonchalance.

"That white-skinned woman is very likely one of the paladins," Ambrose continued. "Gareth, even if the future is already decided, even if my head is destined to be separated from the rest of my body, I want my phylactery to survive. You're my greatest hope and my final safeguard. I don't want anything to happen to you because of carelessness."

He set down the parts in his hands and placed both palms on the Dullahan's shoulders, his tone grave and earnest. "Gareth, I entrust my phylactery to you. Please, protect it with everything you've got."