Necromancer Academy and the Genius Summoner-Chapter 169: Episode

The camel-drawn wagon lurched into motion with a clatter. The broker, disguised as a merchant, seamlessly joined the caravan as the long procession snaked its way toward the border of the Holy Federation. Inside one of the wagon’s cramped wooden crates, Simon and Lethe were pressed tightly together.

They had already argued several times over their positioning. Sitting up was impossible; the crate was a long, narrow rectangle, and the only way for two people to fit was to lie down and curl up. They tried lying face-to-face, but their noses were practically touching. Lethe shrieked and smacked him, so that idea was scrapped within five seconds. Reversing their positions only led to the mortifying arrangement of having their faces near each other’s legs, so that too was rejected.

They tried back-to-back, legs pulled to their chests, but it only made the space feel more suffocating. In the end, they returned to the face-to-face position. Curled up with their legs overlapping was the best they could manage.

The rhythmic rumble of the wagon wheels filled the silence. Inside the crate, Simon’s face was flushed crimson all the way to his neck.

’This is way too close.’

The lack of space was one thing, but they were near enough to feel the warmth of each other’s breath tickling their skin. Since holding their breath for four hours was out of the question, they settled for controlling their gazes. Simon stared at the ceiling; Lethe stared at the floor. She had repeatedly warned him that making eye contact was a capital offense.

Lethe, who had been on the verge of a tantrum just moments before, now seemed to have resigned herself to her fate. With her cheek pressed against the rough wood of the crate floor, she lay as still as a corpse, as if she had given up on thinking entirely and chosen to become one with the inanimate objects around her.

As Simon battled the oppressive heat and stuffiness, sweat beading on his brow, Lethe brought her hands together before her face. She closed her eyes and began to pray in a barely audible whisper.

"Oh, great Goddess. I shall accept this terrible trial you have bestowed upon me and endure it with grace. Not only have I conspired with a wicked one against Your will, but I am guiding him into Your holy land. For this, I deserve to be struck down by lightning this very instant."

Simon fought back a wry smile.

’Is she really going to overcome this with faith?’

If thinking of this unbearable situation as a divine trial helped her endure it, he supposed it was her own unique coping mechanism.

"But, oh Goddess," she continued, her tone shifting, "couldn’t you have just struck me with lightning? Or made me roll in a filthy pigsty? Why this specific punishment of being face-to-face with this insufferable boy? It is an irreverent thought, I know, but I find myself a little resentful."

"You know, I can hear you," Simon muttered.

"Shut up," she hissed.

"Don’t eavesdrop on my prayers." Two hours crawled by.

He felt as though he had become one with the wagon.

’I am the carriage, and the carriage is me.’

He was now intimately familiar with the plight of cargo.

’I never knew four hours could feel this long. Maybe I should try talking to her.’

The sounds from outside—the murmuring of merchants and the constant grinding of the wheels—were loud enough to cover a quiet conversation. He decided to risk it.

"Le—"

"Shut your mouth."

Her breath ghosted across his neck, and the words died in his throat.

"Just stay still, will you?"

It was no use. He’d been shot down before he even started. Giving up, Simon averted his gaze. Another twenty minutes passed. He was mentally reviewing his lessons when he heard her voice again.

"Seriously."

He glanced over. She was looking at him with an expression of profound embarrassment.

"A man shouldn’t get so sulky over something like that. Shouldn’t you at least try a second time?"

"Try what?"

"Ugh, never mind."

She lowered her gaze and mumbled, "What were you going to say?"

"I was going to talk to you."

"Go on, then."

It seemed the time was just as agonizing for her. The boredom was one thing, but being trapped in the rattling darkness with nothing but her own thoughts was a mental trial of its own.

Simon smiled.

"It’s nothing much, just a personal—"

"Quietly!" she snapped.

"Watch your breath! It gives me the creeps every time it touches my neck!"

"Then I’ll just stay quiet."

"A personal what?"

Seeing her uncharacteristically desperate for conversation, Simon felt a small sense of satisfaction.

"I was going to ask how you met my mother."

"Ah."

A faint smile touched her lips. It seemed to be an acceptable topic.

"And you’re only asking that important question now?"

"I tried a few times, but you said you didn’t want to defile your precious memories by sharing them with a necromancer."

"Oh, when did I... Ahem! Fine. As a special exception, I’ll tell you."

Lethe had been a war orphan. She grew up in a small mountain village on the border between the Holy Federation and the Dark Alliance, a disputed territory. One day, a band of necromancers, enraged after losing a comrade to a priest, descended upon the village and laid it to waste. Lethe, only three at the time, survived by hiding in a small cupboard, but she lost her parents in the attack.

And that day, she witnessed a sight that would haunt her for the rest of her life: the necromancers, cackling with glee as they raised the corpses of her parents and the villagers who had cherished her into shambling skeletons.

The necromancers eventually left, but the terrified child couldn’t bring herself to take a single step outside. Days passed. Just as she was on the verge of starvation, someone entered the house. Lethe scrambled back into the wardrobe, but the person simply knocked gently, speaking a few reassuring words before slowly opening the door.

In that moment, Lethe met a miracle.

"I’m sorry."

Her name was Anna Cross.

"I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry."

By then, Anna had already broken ties with Efnel, joined the Dark Alliance, and given birth to Richard’s child. But after recovering, she would occasionally slip back into her homeland. She donated the vast fortune she had amassed during her active years to society, using it to establish over twenty monasteries across the country. But these were not ordinary monasteries; they were orphanages, havens for children who had lost their parents to war.

A few times a year, Anna would cross the border in secret to help. It was during one of these visits that she and Lethe became close.

"Ms. Anna!"

Lethe, whose life Anna had saved, adored her like a mother, and Anna doted on her in return.

"I want to become a great priest like you when I grow up!"

At that, Anna would offer an unreadable smile.

"You must become an even greater priest than me."

"But I heard you were the Saintess of Miracles! There’s no priest in the world greater than you!"

Anna’s eyes would turn sad as she stroked Lethe’s hair.

"Your teacher made too many people sad and miserable. Don’t be like me, Lethe."

But no matter what Anna said, she remained Lethe’s idol. Lethe cultivated a devout faith at the monastery, completed the nineteen Penances, and became a promising priest at a young age. The elders, captivated by her talent, hailed her as the second coming of Anna Cross. Though she couldn’t break Anna’s record for being the youngest to achieve her rank, just being compared to her hero was enough to make Lethe happy.

She continued to excel and was eventually admitted to Efnel as Selection No. 1.

"When I heard the truth about Anna, it was... a shock," Lethe said, her voice drained of energy.

"To think that the person who saved my life, the person I respected most—that legendary Saintess—was actually married to a necromancer and had even borne his child."

Her voice began to simmer with rage.

"Honestly, I found it hard to understand. How she could abandon her position as a Saintess, contract an incurable disease, and waste away in the middle of nowhere, all for a mere necromancer."

’So that’s why she despises necromancers.’ Simon thought to himself.

A horrifying memory, buried so deep it had become a part of her. Her parents turned into undead before her very eyes, while their defilers laughed. Who wouldn’t harbor a burning hatred? Coupled with years of religious indoctrination, her hostility must have become absolute. In that light, her treatment of him and his father had been, in its own way, an act of supreme restraint.

"But you never know what life has in store," she continued, her gaze finding his in the darkness.

"And now here I am, face-to-face, skin-to-skin with that very necromancer’s son. I honestly feel like biting my tongue off and dying."

A part of Simon wanted to apologize—as a fellow necromancer, for the atrocities those men had committed. But he knew such an apology would be hollow, meaningless. It would offer her no comfort. So, instead...

"I’ll do my best to change your perception of us," he said.

It was the only thing he could ever do: try.

"Nothing you do will ever change it," she snorted.

But her tone was a fraction less scornful than before.

A distinct tapping sound came from outside the crate. They both froze.

’Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.’

Five short, consecutive taps. The signal meant only one thing.

"Get ready. We’re about to enter the Gate of Divinity."

The Gate was a checkpoint of sorts. If any person or cargo carried a malevolent aura, the gate’s light would turn murky, instantly summoning Heretic Inquisitors. After the signal, the wagon slowed as it fell into a line of others waiting to pass through.

"Are you worried?" Lethe asked, her voice carefully neutral.

Simon just smiled. "I’m not."

He summoned his Divinity, wrapping it around himself like a cloak to conceal the Jet-Black aura of the core near his heart. Now, even a whisper was a risk. They fell silent, their eyes darting in the darkness.

’Thump!’

A loud noise, as if someone had slapped the side of the wagon. Lethe gasped, clamping a hand over her mouth. One wrong sound and they were finished.

’Thump!’

This time, it sounded like someone had climbed on top of the wagon.

’Damn it, they don’t know we’re in here, do they?’

Lethe fought to suppress a murderous urge.

Simon listened intently. He could hear a man on top of the wagon talking and laughing with someone. The broker protested, mentioning potential damage to the cargo, and the man reluctantly climbed down.

’We’re going through now.’

As a wielder of Divinity, Simon was sure he wouldn’t be detected, but he couldn’t stop the knot of tension in his stomach. Just then, Lethe wriggled closer. He tensed as he felt her breath on his skin.

"Stay still," she whispered, placing both hands on his chest.

A current of her Divinity flowed out, enveloping him in a protective film.

A moment later.

’Whoosh!’

Simon felt his body pass through something intangible and strange. They had made it through the Gate of Divinity.

’Phew, we’re safe.’

As Simon sighed in relief, she giggled softly and shifted her body.

"Welcome, necromancer," she whispered, her voice a lilting, intimate sound in the darkness.

She brought a finger to her lips and gave him a slow wink.

"To the Holy Federation."