Liora’s eyes shot to the side, and Adarin sized up the man walking toward them: a young necromancer in a dark green robe, wooden staff carved with strange symbols, a scraggly beard framing cropped red hair.

  Liora’s shifting tattoos confirmed his suspicion.

  You resisted Raise Zombie (Group)!

  Is everyone here infected by The System? He sensed Liora tensing, ready to bolt. He made a decision and spoke into her mind. 'Make no movements, girl. Calm down.'

  She froze. ‘What… Who are—’

  Adarin rolled his eyes. The moment I let her think, she’s going to fuck something up. 'I’m here to help you. You can’t run. He is a construct controller.'

  The shambling, puppeted corpses around them were ample proof of that. Unluckily for the strange boy—construct control was his specialty. Albeit using robots instead of puppeted corpses. Adarin felt a mix of agreement, panic, and confusion. But also a strange, morbid curiosity.

  'Okay, stay down. Stay on the ground and wait until he gets close. I saw you inflict brain cancer on the orc when you touched him. You can’t cause damage if you can’t touch a person, right?'

  He hammered her mind word by word, drowning her thoughts beneath his will, until he felt a faint pulse of agreement, then the image of her brother’s face—rotting, lying before her—flashed through his mind. 'Yes, good. Use it. Fight now, grieve later.'

  Liora’s curled-up body lay still in the dirt, barely breathing. Step by step, the young man advanced. Suddenly, a second, outrageously flamboyant figure dropped from the sky: knife-edged ears, a tricorn hat bristling with feathers, and a long black coat embroidered with silver bones and skulls.

  Adarin felt Liora’s panic rising. Her thoughts droned in his mind. 'What do we do now?'

  Adarin thought furiously. Taking out one controller—that might have worked. But this guy? Adarinx avatars' guts tightened. Something is wrong with him. Sometimes… 'Don’t act hostile. Let them capture you unless they try to kill you. I’ll call the attack if that happens. Otherwise, we follow along and wait for another chance.'

  He felt her uncertainty. 'But what if—'

  'No what-ifs. Do what I say, girl. Your actions killed enough people today.'

  Liora’s body shuddered. 'Oh Holy Mother, they... I think they’re necromancers,' she whispered inside her mind as the maelstrom of images sped up, becoming chaotic.

  Adarin frowned. Necromancers? That means… death-diviners. A strange name for puppet masters of the fallen.

  The man walked closer.

  'Now, girl, be ready. If he touches you—'

  'Yes, yes, I’m not stupid,' she shot back, showing spirit for the first time since she had killed the others. Adarin nodded in grim satisfaction. Let's see if that's a good or a bad thing.

  The man stopped five steps from her.

  “Guten Tag, Sie müssen nicht mehr— Oh, sorry, my thoughts were scattered. Greetings, there is no need to play dead. May I introduce myself?”

  The man stood in silence, waiting for an answer. Before Adarin could speak, Liora rose from the ground. Adarin exhaled sharply, barely containing his annoyance before calming himself. Well, the game was up anyways. I should be in better control of my emotions.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  As Liora moved, the man offered a leather-gloved hand and helped her up.

  'Now, now, now,' Adarin hissed.

  He felt the strange energy circle the girl’s heart implant, then shot through the gloved hand—living, vibrant, shifting. It's… a mental interface obscuring what the system is actually doing. Some kind of organic chemistry trick? Adarin wondered absently.

  The man’s white glove glowed with several purple symbols, and Liora’s tattoo shifted again.

  Target has resisted unstructured magic: Transmutation Blast!

  Liora’s eyes went wide. Adarin cursed. Liora’s sudden resistance sparked a flicker of doubt in the necromancer’s eyes. The man tightened his grip for a few heartbeats, looked her straight in the eyes, then released her hand. He tucked the staff he carried under his other arm and bowed in a ridiculously formal manner.

  “A most auspicious meeting, milady. My name is Rüdiger vom Erlenwald. Professor of Economics, Archmagister of Necromancy, and Margrave of the Order of the Invisible Hand, at your service.”

  He removed his hat, bowed again, and twirled it between his fingers as he studied her. Liora waited, frozen—a mouse before an owl.

  Adarin’s jaw tensed. 'Do something, girl. Talk to him,' he ordered her. Can't she do anything on her own?

  Her eyes fell to the side—the boy moving from shambling corpse to shambling corpse, pressing a branding iron to their foreheads. After each marking, the corpses moved with purpose, their motions smoothing. Liora flinched as Annie was branded.

  Rüdiger’s smile faltered. “I assume those were your sisters, priestess. I am sorry about the necessities of war.”

  Liora’s gaze faltered, tears spilling down her cheeks. Adarin rolled his eyes.

  'Get yourself together,' he groaned.

  Then Liora screamed. “Fuck off, all of you! Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off!”

  She took a few hesitant steps, but Rüdiger did not follow. The red-haired necromancer watched with a tilted head as he branded another priestess.

  “I will not listen to your evil magics any longer! Neither yours’ nor yours’!”

  She looked at Rüdiger again. Her hands clenched into fists, knuckles whitening. Adarin groaned. 'This is not magic, girl. It’s your implants. Come to grips with reality.'

  “Stop whispering in my mind!” she screamed, clutching her temples.

  Rüdiger pulled out a softly glowing sphere of strange white material and smiled again.

  “Ah, yes. Your acquaintance. Do not worry, I will take care of him.”

  Adarin's blood ran cold. He knows. No way he inferred my existence from her ramblings. Suddenly the prey and no longer the predator, Adarin watched every movement of the strange man.

  The Mage began pacing—a lecturing professor’s manner—if only he weren’t surrounded by dead and shambling, rotten corpses in a military fortification. “This might be the explanation, yes, yes. What if—hmm—two parts, indeed, indeed. Where...”

  He turned to Liora. “Girl, you are impressive. Tell me—what level are you? What spells do you know?”

  Liora lowered her eyes. Adarin felt a mix of shame and anger. As the man's title echoed through her mind. So he is someone to fear. Someone she has to respect, even if she despises them. “My Lord Margrave... due to the evil I carry, I was never allowed to be given the blessings of a crystal. I have been using the raw flow of holy power to heal people.”

  The dangerous eccentric stared. Then grabbed his head, digging his fingers into the rim of his hat. He let out a shuddering breath and looked back at her. “So, you were born in a backwater region. They have no formal magic and thought your necromancy was a curse.”

  His steps blurred as he moved toward Liora. Adarin screamed a warning and tried to move her—but was powerless again. She yelped as Rüdiger’s hands landed on both sides of her throat.

  Adarin felt every muscle in Liora’s body go limp. Then something strange swept through her. Eight pulses of prickling energy—each slightly different—ran across her body. Most traveled to the head, some to the chest, and one to each hand. Each time, something inside her rang like a bell—one of her implants. The bells for the heart and guts rang the loudest.

  Eventually, Liora regained control of her muscles and collapsed with a gasp. Rüdiger caught her, offering his quarterstaff for support. He stepped close—too close—and locked eyes with her. “Girl, you have the greatest aptitude I have ever seen for transmutation and necromancy by an order of magnitude. Do you know what that means?”

  A manic glint lit the Archmagister’s eyes. Adarin ground his teeth. Great. Another maniac after the orcs. But he’s stronger. What the hell happened here? Liora shook her head anxiously. “No... No, Milord.”

  Rüdiger chuckled. “Don’t call me Milord. Call me Rüdiger.”

  He stroked his beard, muttering half to himself. “Ja, ja. In cases of trauma... agency, agency...”

  Then his grin widened, feral and sharp. He leaned close, eyes gleaming. “You are about to learn your true first spell.”

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