Wandering Knight-Chapter 317: The Lichs Phylactery

"We're short on time. Gather materials quickly. Make sure we collect all the alchemical reagents we'll need for the next six months. Opening a planar rift is still far too expensive."

In the undead plane, a newly-formed rift sealed shut behind a group of mages from Skyborne City. The lead magician began issuing instructions to his companions.

"The mineral veins near this fixed entrance have mostly been exhausted by the denizens of this plane in recent years. We'll need to venture further out."

One of the knights raised a compact alchemical scanner and swept it across the ground. A few runes blinked faintly, confirming that the area held nothing of value.

"Take the mining golems with you," the magician added, opening up a magical storage vault issued by their academy. "Keep an eye on the undead. If they start swarming, we won't be able to outrun them with these machines in tow. Without my containment spells, they're far too slow—and if they get destroyed, this whole trip will be wasted."

He extracted over a dozen metallic cubes from the vault and set them on the cracked earth. As they hit the ground, they unfolded with a hiss of compressed alchemy, transforming into humanoid mining constructs with drills for their left hands and iron pincers for their right.

These golems were the team's main labor force. As pure alchemical machines, they weren't affected by the planar suppression. Compared to them, the magicians, knights, and even wizards in the group were all less efficient miners.

"Understood. We'll sweep the surrounding area and gather the basic materials first. Once you've adjusted to the suppression here, come find us."

The knight who spoke gave a brief nod, then departed with the rest of the crew and their golems, leaving the lead magician alone near the rift's edge—a rare safe zone that had been repeatedly purged over the years.

The magician laid down a ring of simple wards and sat cross-legged within. He closed his eyes and began to meditate, breathing in the magic of the undead plane. Drawing from the local mana helped reduce the strength of the planar suppression.

His own strength wasn't enough to use high-level prospecting spells just yet—he'd need a moment to adapt.

If anything were to approach, his wards would alert him. Even here, in a supposedly secure zone, vigilance was vital.

Wisps of gray-white mana, half-corporeal and heavy with decay, flowed into him. Mist pooled faintly around his warded circle. The necrotic mana was somewhat harmful to the living and would need to be purged later once they returned to the material plane.

Unseen, the mist around the magician darkened. Faint strands of black threaded through it. The magician did not notice. He simply continued breathing in the ambient magic as he let the plane gradually accept him.

His leg spasmed. One heel scraped against the stone. A thin stream of dark red blood, laced with black, spilled from his nostrils and soaked into the front of his robes.

His breathing turned ragged. Muscles jerked violently. His face flushed purple as his body struggled. Blood now seeped not just from his nose, but from his eyes, ears, and mouth. It flowed freely, thick and dark.

After half a minute, the convulsions stopped. The magician sat still, pale as bone, and no longer pained.

His lips parted. A plume of black mist escaped, curling upward. Somewhere within it, one could almost hear the faintest echo of anguished wailing.

His eyes opened with dry blood crusted at the corners. The gaze within was no longer his. Where once there had been calm intellect, now there was cold contempt.

"This frail body... no matter. It will suffice. The dragon is in Skyborne City. I can't act there, not yet. I'll need to lure it to the undead plane, or into a pocket dimension. If Skyborne City's alchemical army locks onto me, it'll be... inconvenient."

The magician flexed his fingers. There was a sharp snap—he'd broken his own index finger without meaning to. "Hmph. Fragile. But manageable." Varma, the dragon-lich, had consumed the magician's soul and seized his form.

"My master has already spent too much time chasing that silver dragon. The heretics still roaming this continent must be eliminated swiftly so he may focus fully on her."

Varma had accessed the magician's mind and obtained what information she needed.

The crimson trail that the Crimson Mark curio had traced in her mind ended here at the now-sealed rift. All she had to do was cross through, and she'd be in Skyborne City.

"Time to take a risk. This body's limits are truly a hindrance..."

A blade of black energy formed between her fingers. Without hesitation, she stabbed it into her own chest.

The cut split her sternum with ease. No blood emerged; the body's blood had been drained entirely as Varma eradicated the magician's soul. It was little more than a corpse now, one that went through the motions of life mechanically.

She reached into the wound in her chest, tearing aside muscle and bone until the shriveled organs beneath were exposed, still twitching and still infused with undead mana.

The ground split open beside her. Her true body rose up from beneath the earth, dragged forth by her will.

With calm precision, she mirrored the action, splitting open its draconic chest and exposing its ancient, withered heart.

The same energy blade sliced through both hearts. Then she extracted a small, metallic object—no larger than her knuckle—from the draconic heart and implanted it into the human one.

This was her phylactery. Essential to any lich, it now pulsed within her stolen human frame. With the phylactery secured, Varma could wield her true strength even in this borrowed shell.

Necrotic magic surged. Black-grey spectral threads wove through the wound, stitching flesh and bone shut. The body bore no sign of injury anymore. At the same time, she buried her draconic body once more.

She wiped her bloodied face and neck. With a spell, even the pallor of undeath faded, leaving her looking fully human.

Lifting her gaze, Varma saw the returning silhouettes of the mage's companions in the distance. She raised one hand toward them. The phylactery within her heart thrummed. Mana burst outward like a storm.

Countless skeletal hands burst from the ground, clawing upward. Before the others could even react, they were seized, their armor ripped away, their flesh torn, their souls dragged screaming into the earth. The undead plane claimed them in silence.

Elsewhere, beyond the former borders of Selwyn, now part of the kingdom of Aleisterre, a caravan of the Church of Nightfall made its way through a winding, forested trade route. The path was rough; wagon wheels jolted over roots and stones, causing the passengers inside to sway and grumble.

"Does your church have any other rules?"

The speaker, a man in his forties, was oddly clean-shaven and unwrinkled, but he carried an air of long hardship. He turned to the gnome seated beside him, who looked thoroughly annoyed.

"No. No rules," snapped the gnome, "This is the third time you've asked. Our church doesn't do ‘rules.' I get that you three were excommunicated and still cling to your old habits, but it's time to adjust. This is the Church of Nightfall."

Elliot, the gnome, was clearly exasperated. He'd already explained this repeatedly.

"But how can that be?" insisted Damian, the man. "The Church of Light has its Commandments. Our old god gave us the Fifteen Admonitions. We lived by those.

"Without these divine commandments, how are we to follow in the footsteps of our god, to enact His will, to spread His radiance?"

Damian refused to relent, his voice still burdened with the weight of his dogma. He fixed the gnome with a look of grim expectation, clearly determined to drag an answer from him, no matter how painful.

"If you must put it that way, fine. Take this for example: being a decent person. The three of you choosing to abandon that so-called god of justice, whose deeds and slogans never quite lined up—that already makes you better than most. Just try not to do anything evil going forward.

"Oh, and one more thing. You misspoke earlier. We follow the Lady of the Night. So we don't ‘spread radiance.' We spread darkness—her darkness. Our goal is to let more souls bask in the embrace of her night. Got it?"

His words came in a rapid cascade. Elliot had reached the limit of his patience.

It had all begun so simply. Following his creed of preaching the faith of the Lady of the Night to any traveler he came across, Elliot had lent aid to three ragged wanderers headed in the same direction along the trade route. With their tattered clothes, hollow eyes, they could have been mistaken for beggars. He offered them help, and, as was his way, an invitation to join the Church of Nightfall.

To his surprise, the trio turned out to be former cultists, duped by some evil god whose name they'd long since abandoned. They'd been roaming the land ever since, aimless and alone. But after hearing Elliot's words and learning about the ways of the Church, they agreed to join on the spot.

At first, Elliot had been thrilled—three converts in a single day! But joy quickly soured into regret. Of the three, two were quiet and reserved. The third, however, was Damian, a devout zealot and a tireless talker. He had been interrogating Elliot with questions for nearly an hour now, without pause.

"There's a copy of the Lady's sacred text here, Mr. Damian. If you'd like to read it, please help yourself."

From the front of the wagon, Emmon pulled aside the curtain and handed a book back into the carriage.

Elliot had never been more grateful to hear his voice. Why hadn't he thought of that sooner? Let the man read for himself.

"Thank you."

Damian accepted the holy book with reverence. Purportedly written by the Lady of the Night, it was actually a hodgepodge that Wang Yu had produced while liberally cribbing from Earth's religious works.

But this particular edition was not the original. Only the Nightblades and Wang Yu still possessed copies of that crude first draft.

The version Damian now held had been edited and organized with Avia's help. The Lady of the Night had even contributed a few passages of her own. It was, by any measure, a more coherent and complete sacred text.

Damian opened it without hesitation and immediately buried himself in its pages. Though the wagon swayed and bumped along the road, his hands remained utterly steady, gripping the book with reverent purpose.

Elliot, watching this, sighed with relief. At last, some peace. Surely now Damian would stop—"Mr. Elliot, may I ask what this passage means? I find it rather unclear."

"Damn it... which passage? Let me see." He leaned over to look. "What's unclear about this? It just says, ‘Take care of your life first—get by, survive—then go worry about prayers and spreading the faith.'"

"But shouldn't faith come before life itself?" Damian frowned. "To follow our god, to place Her above all things—that is the very meaning of a believer's life, is it not?"

He was reading intently, quickly, and every line he couldn't understand became a new question hurled at Elliot. And there were many, many lines.

"What kind of twisted logic is that?" Elliot groaned. "Even our most devout just shout, ‘Praise be to the Lady of the Night! I love You!' every now and then. I think there's a part in the scripture that talks about zealots like you. Wait, let me find it..."

He flipped through the pages in Damian's hands until he reached the passage he was searching for.

Damian blinked. The heading read: The Useless Zealot.

"Before asking how devout you are, ask how useful you are. Rather than shout all day, why not earn the Church another hundred gold pieces. Feed a few more believers. If you actually manage that, then as Archbishop, I thank you. You are the Lady's most faithful child, and I'll pray on your behalf for what you lack."

Damian's lips parted slightly. He had become speechless for the first time. "This... feels a little too materialistic," he finally said. "Isn't the true pursuit of faith meant to be a spiritual ascent?"

His tone had softened and now even harbored a note of uncertainty. But he still looked to Elliot for guidance.

Elliot groaned. "Have you even understood why we follow the Lady of the Night? If you're chasing ‘spiritual ascension,' go worship the God of Light. That's the kind of stuff you'll find in his scripture.

"We follow Her because She actually watches over us. And besides, the Church of Nightfall is like a village. People help each other live better lives together. Now go read the last page."

Damian opened his mouth again, but Elliot had already turned the book to its final passage. It was written in the voice of the Lady Herself.

"I hope that one day, My faithful will be able to live the lives they long for without needing to pray to Me. And when that day comes, may they still remember that I exist..."

Subconsciously, Damian read the words aloud. His expression grew distant, unreadable. The other two converts looked up, as if stirred by something neither light nor sound—the hush of a presence passing in the dark.