The more you learn magic, the more you understand it's just like mathematics. Everything works in a neat, logical manner, and the numbers have power. Weirdly, the more you learn mathematics, the more you understand it's nothing like magic, and even suggesting such a thing is insanity.

  As the seventh son of the seventh son, Elijah von Strauss the Third knew the true power of numbers and magic combined.

  He was walking down a roughly hewn corridor of slightly yellowish stone. The floor was smoothly paved flagstone made from the same stone. His torch gave him just enough light to see around him into the dark spaces between wall-mounted torches. There was starting to be more and more space between the mounts, but Elijah wasn't worried. No monster would wander this close to a dungeon entrance.

  He stopped at the end of the lit torches. Dungeon Watch lit torches every day to lead returning adventurers back to the city, and to give watchmen a suitable level of light to keep watch. At the deeper levels, magical lanterns were used and a common D-rank quest was to walk around refilling the lanterns.

  Elijah started to pile weapons, shields and a handful of leather armors on the floor, pulling everything out of his shoulder bag. There was much more items than should be possible to fit into a bag of that size.

  It was also too small to contain the corpse Elijah dropped onto the floor.

  ”Raise Dead,” he chanted and watched with fascination as his new spell worked.

  A dead peasant twitched a couple of times, bones grinding together, and stiff muscles provided motion to the dead flesh. Silently, the reanimated corpse waited for instructions.

  ”Stand up, find your weapon and stand aside,” Elijah commanded. The undead nodded in agreement, stood up, and walked to a pile of weapons while his summoner prepared a new corpse. With a flip of his dimensional bag Elijah let out a new corpse, slamming it into the dungeon floor with a crunch. He wasn't too worried about the condition of the bodies. The spell would work even if half of the corpse was missing and a couple of broken bones would be fine.

  These were just pawns.

  ”Raise Dead,” he chanted again, and he had a new servant. He repeated the command and squeezed a new body out of his bag. It was in its own way very satisfying.

  Like reverse sausage-making.

  By the sixth casting, Elijah realized his mistake. His newly risen undead horde congregated by the weapon pile without taking anything from it. With a sigh, he revised his command.

  ”Find and stand aside.”

  Instantly all six undead lifted a weapon and took a couple of steps away from the leftover weapons. The sweaty elf who gave the necromancer class to Elijah warned him about the wording of his commands and pleaded with Elijah to attend a basic course of his new class before going to a dungeon.

  Elijah harrumphed before casting again.

  Like he would march into a guild hall newly minted, begging for instructions for something so simple as commanding others. He had servants all his life, he knew how to order others around and if needed, bend them to his will. Also, his dealings with the elf weren't exactly illegal, but there would be some awkward questions he would like not to answer.

  Like where did he get a bag full of corpses and weapons. And why he didn't go through proper channels to gain his new class. He simply didn't have time to deal with something pointless like small town bureaucracy and pleasing petty officials with paperwork. He would deal with all of that after he earned some pocket money for a small bribe to grease the wheels.

  Elijah heard a soft ding in his head and a small smile rose to his handsome face.

  His seventh undead servant let out a customary groan, but this time it got up faster and the dimness in its eyes was a bit less severe. The groaning would eventually get on Elijah's nerves, maybe he could order all of his undead retinue to stay silent? Before pondering the future commands too much he took a cursory glance at the undead before ordering it to take up arms.

  As expected, his seventh casting of the spell was more powerful due to his amazing skill gained from birth, Seventh Son of the Seventh Son. Maybe he should keep the better ones closer? A protective detail worthy of von Strauss! With his mind's eye, he could imagine a horde of undead sweeping through the dungeon, him being guarded by the most powerful bested foes! A groan from an undead ruined the moment and Elijah ordered it to stay silent forever.

  Elijah chanted his spell, almost bored. He had gained three more ranks in Raise Dead and one more in Necromancy by spamming his spell, an admirable gain for a couple of hours of light work, but it was so boring compared to shooting lightning out of his hands.

  And it had started to smell, why had nobody warned him about that? To gain momentary relief, Elijah fished out a finely embroidered handkerchief from his silken robes, and let the perfumed article wash away the filth of the dungeon.

  Sure, maybe it wasn't that bad on the topside with wind and all, but the air stood still in the dungeon and took in all of the foul aromas. Elijah decided that the next one would be the last casting for now. It would also be the seventh time he activated Seventh Son, and his rearguard would be completed. Others in that squad were a smidge stronger, weren't that sluggish and seemed to comprehend his orders better. Most of them even understood how to hold a shield and weapon at the same time without being ordered separately.

  ”Raise Dead.”

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  The body, a decently muscular man this time, twitched once. Elijah waited. After a minute, he poked the body with his elderwood staff to make sure that the spell worked. The body twitched again, still lying silently.

  ”Umm, stand up. Pick up a weapon and shield. Stand aside. Wait for orders,” Elijah ordered before considering he might have given too many commands. Since his seventh member of the rearguard didn't vocalize so much, Elijah decided that he was already ahead of the curve.

  Elijah inspected the undead more closely, circling around him while looking him over carefully. He was dressed in a simple, rough, grey linen tunic and trousers. The color was a little odd for a peasant, but that might just be a side effect of the weaving process. Perhaps the weaver had used a glamour skill on the fabric.

  Decently tall, around six feet in Elijah's estimation. Inches shorter than him, perfect to look down his nose at. Broad shoulders, scarred hands, muddy brown hair and eyes. Skin was waxy and bloated from decay, but there was decent bone structure, which could make him look half-decent if it was still alive.

  Common as dirt commoner, but the eyes were different from the others. There was less of the milky white fogginess, and the eyes followed Elijah's movement. It's eyes had a spark of intelligence, something none of the others had.

  "Hmmm, you'll be my right hand man. A personal bodyguard. Take that leather armor, a shield and spear. Stay at my side," Elijah commanded and pointed at the weapons.

  He had a couple of leather armors which he had distributed to his bodyguards. An Armored meatwall is better than an unarmored one.

  Silently, the undead nodded once. Not a sound. Elijah already started to like this one. If only it didn't stink.

  The undead walked to the diminished pile of weapons and even looked around before choosing a spear and shield. While it was standing still, Elijah could swear it was standing at something resembling attention, shield raised and spear ready. He walked closer to inspect its eyes more closely, and they were indeed much clearer than the others. Interesting, was this the workings of his skill or was this body naturally just compatible with Raise Dead? He should ask about things like this from the guild, but he had already spent too much time just preparing his servants for some light spelunking.

  Considering his words little more carefully and giving shields to the undead, he organized his troops into seven squads. Three in the vanguard, one for personal protection and three at the rearguard.

  With simple language, he ordered the vanguard to keep the middle of the hallway free for him to see where they were going and to snipe with some spells.

  The Rearguard was ordered to hold ranks and, regretfully, moan very loudly if something attacked them. Elijah kept his bodyguards next to him and ordered his best undead to make sure everything the vanguard attacked was actually dead.

  ”Just stab everything on the floor a couple of times to make sure they are really dead, OK?” he said before yelling orders to advance.

  Hours passed, and the initial excitement and sense of danger of being inside the dungeon started to vanish. There wasn't really any danger in there! Monsters were pathetic ratpeople without proper gear. Rusty weapons, scraps and garbage stolen from humans. Their bodies weren't even worth the mana to raise as undead. Chances of loot were low too, not to mention absolutely minuscule chance of a treasure chest spawning.

  Also, his feet started to hurt from all of this walking around. He needed someone to carry a chair for breaks. Not one of his undead of course, them being walking rot factories.

  Nevertheless Elijah was pleased. His first solo run to a dungeon was a rousing success. His formation was solid for now and after half a dozen small skirmishes he had to replace four undead from the front and adjust his orders. Maybe now those idiotic undead wouldn't walk into his spells. He didn't want to waste too much of his new subordinate troops for nothing. They did cost him a pretty hefty sum after all.

  Elijah didn't need those so-called adventurers. He had a team of his own now! No more bickering about 'that fireball was too close', 'you almost killed me with that lightning' or 'my arm!'. That’ll teach those peasants to spread rumors about him and blacklist him around town.

  Smiling, Elijah flicked Lightning Bolt forward, nailing a rat-faced humanoid in the chest, frying it inside out. With a skittering scream it fell to the floor and died. Not a single complaint about lightning near metal equipment.

  Still, there was room for improvement. Elijah couldn't see directly ahead, making it difficult to attack with spells and commands. Maybe he should reduce the vanguard and keep more troops in reserve in the rearguard? Maybe even rotate troops to balance experience distribution. Did raised familiars even get skill experience? He’d definitely check that out later.

  Did undead even get skills?

  ”Everyone! If you have a skill, use it when you can!”

  Bigger rooms would be a problem too. Narrow corridors of upper floors would be fine, but if his formation marched into a hall or a slightly wider hallway his flanks would be compromised. Again, the answer seemed to be to use the rearguard, but using that for everything would muddle his orders. The simple creatures he commanded couldn't possibly hold all of his genius in their little rotting heads.

  As he prepared another bolt, Elijah absently wondered that maybe— an arrow flew into Elijah's throat, interrupting his concentration.

  Unfinished, the spell went haywire inside him, searing his veins, boiling blood, bouncing around his organs and finally erupting from his back, instantly killing one of his rearguard. Elijah found himself on the floor, half-blind, smelling his own burnt flesh and the metallic taste in his mouth.

  All that, but no pain. Elijah thought that was weird. Not even the fist-sized crater of a wound gave him any agony.

  Dazed, he felt his wound with his hand, found a bloodied arrow, and yanked it out with a gush of vibrant red blood. Realizing his mistake, Elijah's hands flew to his belt to find a healing potion.

  A spear stabbed him in the chest.

  It didn't hurt either.

  Dumbfounded, Elijah stared at the spearhead buried in his chest. Eyes straining, he followed the shaft to a hand, a shoulder, and finally, to the face of his killer.

  It was his right hand man! One of his own bodyguards had rebelled! A scowl rose to his face, anger lighting up his spirit. Betrayal! A filthy peasant thought that he, Elijah von Strauss the Third, would let a damn unwashed...

  With a sucking sound, the spear left Elijah's chest only to pierce his torso again.

  And again. And again, until his chest was left as a bloody, pulped mess. With a twist, the spear left his body for the last time.

  Without formal training in necromancy, demonic deals, fey wordplay, or other practical laws, Elijah didn't know to word his commands carefully to avoid loopholes. When he fell to the floor, his servants only carried out his command.

  ”Just stab everything on the floor a couple of times to make sure they are really dead, OK?”

  Inside the undead's head, a series of soft dings chimed.

  Similar errors and solutions flickered inside the undead's absent mind for minutes before final messages dinged.