The undead.

Like every child of Latias, Croix had grown up hearing the story. To the north lay the Dread North, a land of freezing waste where the dead rose and roamed. The scary stories that mothers told naughty children to make them behave.

The Latias Kingdom maintained a strong border to stop the undead incursion but the undead were already there before the kingdom was born.

As a kid, he once asked his teacher which was worse, the Harkelans or the undead, Latias' two main adversaries.

The teacher said that the Dead King, the absolute ruler of the Dread North and the strongest necromancer in history, was the enemy of all living beings. Once, he almost conquered the whole continent with his army. The dead didn't tire. They didn't need food or shelter. They came as a merciless, unrelenting tide of death. Those stories already terrified the five-year-old Croix, but his teacher added that further north existed beings that were even more terrible.

The Harkelan Empire was the only country in the Human Dominion that employed necromancers in its official army despite the warnings from the Estellian Church. They also fought the undead on their northern border. The Dead King's forces didn't discriminate between the living. The army of necromancers was very useful in the northern border, using the undead against the undead.

Croix didn't think his first encounter with the undead would be against a Harkelan necromancer. And what would bother him the most was not the unnatural creatures of the undead army or the necromantic miasma.

It was the stench.

The smell of the rotting flesh was truly deplorable, even though there was some distance between them. Falmerion had retreated to the very back of the camp, his nose working against him this time. Meanwhile, Avel went to the center of all that. He hoped Avel had the means to filter out the smell, for his own sake.

Currently, the Red Dragon Unit was holding its position. Across a hundred fifty meters of open field, was the army of the dead, also holding position. Behind the dead, was the city of Founwell, which was being attacked.

Croix wanted to save the citizens as soon as possible but his forces were outnumbered. And so the young prince gave his vassal time to do his thing.

Spider webs...

Croix remembered that Avel, someone he considered to be his teacher, said something about it during the meeting.

Falmerion, lend me your sight.

Arte - Dragon Sight!

Croix used his investigative Arte and concentrated with his eyes changing like that of a dragon. At first, he did not see anything unusual about the undead but after he kept digging and trying, he finally saw the spider webs. The undead army looked like a giant spider nest with otherworldly threads branching everywhere. Even if someone sneaked unseen by the undead, the threads would detect them and alert the web master.

"Hmm..."

And Avel easily detected it... Incredible.

"Worried about your vassal, Your Highness? His bravado is almost too much."

Joining him on the watch was Sir Rivvin. He was the one who advocated for head-on battle during the meeting and the most reckless among the ten squad commanders.

His family was noble, and he was brought up as one. That came with certain drawbacks, such as looking down on commoners and having a much too high opinion about himself.

Rivvin's power as a Pathseeker was real though. Duke Valentine gave Croix not a decoration unit. Each man was a combatant, and the Level 3 squad leaders merited the position they were given.

But this was no noble jousting tourney but war. Things would get messy and unpredictable real fast. Since Rivvin was a noble, Croix couldn't afford to let him die or he would suffer political damage from the nobility circle and Rivvin's family.

Croix defied orders from the Duke to conduct his own military pursuit. Attacking Founwell was unsanctioned but he did it anyway to save his fellow countrymen, but it also meant that any fallout was on his to own.

Croix suspected the same-aged Rivvin was oblivious about his considerations. He only thought of how to fight and win glory. Still, no matter what, Croix couldn't let him die.

"No, Sir Rivvin. I trust my vassal completely. He will deliver," Croix replied.

Rivvin looked down on Avel and Boram because of their birth. What he saw in the Grand Prix show wasn't enough to awe him but little did he know that Avel and Boram's strength was far above what was seen on the magical recordings.

Croix also didn't know but he had some idea. Rivvin thought Croix was the strongest person here, him and his dragon. Was he stronger than Boram at his full might? Croix wasn't sure.

As for Avel, Croix was one of the few who knew Avel was actually a Level 4.

And during Round 2 of the Grand Prix, he somehow managed to save Elvina's mother from the stronghold of a Magisterium Towermaster.

By the Goddess, how powerful is he actually?

The Level 3 necromancer was toast. Croix had no doubt about it. Avel would eat him before breakfast and spit out the bones.

He hoped Rivvin and other people in the Red Dragon Unit who shared a low opinion about Avel were smart enough to not do something that would get themselves killed. They didn't know Avel was much more terrifying than the necromancer with an undead army in front of them.

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"What's that?"

Croix saw lights. The undead's formation was shadowed in darkness, the dead didn't need to use torches because their master gave them the ability to see in the dark. Under the cloudy night where the moonlight was sparse, the blooming of light was easily seen.

The tiny lights were like flying sparks of flame, spreading. The spider webs caught fire and were aflame. Croix found the sight magnificent.

"It has begun. Sir Rivvin, get the men in attack formation. Attack on my command."

"Yes, Your Highness."

From where he stood, Croix saw that Boram had already gone to the front, ready to smash his enemies to a pulp.

***

Tevr of the Dead Hand Division had prepared twelve years for this moment.

The day that he would become a Level 4 Soul Pathseeker.

Just the other day, he turned 34 years old. A level 4 at his age, his importance would rise sharply. His rise to prominence would truly begin.

Terv remembered how tough it was when he was just starting out. How he could only animate one brittle skeleton and fought rabbit monsters for weeks for a living. The days he robbed cemeteries and dungeons. Slowly, his powers grew until he could be useful in the army.

At the northern border, he kept battling the wild undead, making sure they stayed dead, a bit more permanently this time. His minions provided the numbers against the northern dead. Hence, he found success in the army and was promoted to division leader.

But he needed more stimulus to become Level 4; more souls, more resources.

Then the invasion happened and to Latias Terv went. His minions proved their worth here. He could fight an army alone.

With all the sacrifices ready to be reaped, Terv decisively made his shot to Level 4. There was even a Power Spot nearby. The ingredients were complete for his Ascension.

The problem was being in enemy territory. He needed to be quick and cautious.

Sure enough, there was a group of enemies coming. From the eyes of his undead, Terv saw they were Latias knights, about a Level 3 threat. Young and green. Terv rejoiced.

He could defend. The knight-playing noble brats would have to tire themselves against his more numerous minions and he had bodies to spare. They knew that too and didn't attack. Terv thought they would try to liberate the city where his minions reaped fresh souls but they maintained a distance.

Something was up, but if they wanted to assassinate him, Terv was ready. He had confidence in his defensive measures.

He was close. In just a few hours, he would break through the walls between Level 3 and Level 4. With his newfound powers, he would wipe away any enemy within his way and go back to Harkelan triumphant.

He was so very close.

Then he felt it. It was as if his ass was suddenly on fire. It burned! The sudden sensation almost made the ritual fail but Terv held on.

"Enemies!? Find them, minions!"

He roused his minions while trying to find the source of the attack. To his surprise, the attack came not from outside but from within. The undead was burning him!

"Arrrghhh!!"

The burning had gotten worse. Butterflies?

Terv saw the butterflies that looked like flames. There were so many of them now. When one of these butterflies touched the soul connection–the spider webs–that he established with his minions, it went up in flames.

He was famous for how quickly his army responded. Now the source of that feat was backfiring on him.

How did this happen? Why? Then, it clicked.

The butterflies were a soul Arte. He was under attack from another Soul Pathseeker!

How dare they?

But Terv didn't come this far to give up. He was close. A few minutes. Just a few minutes.

The crisis brought unprecedented concentration to the necromancer. The butterflies had latched onto many of his undead and the greater the number his undead were infected, the greater the soul burn he felt. Terv had no choice but to cut the infected loose from his connection. While continuing the ritual, Terv was raising defenses for the soul atack.

"Defend me to the end, my minions!"

He could feel the soul attack was making use of his spider web and was growing in intensity. The other party underestimated him. He was able to resist, and each second he grew closer to Level 4. When Terv did, the other party was finished.

Clamor was in the camp. Sensing their soul attack failed, did they resort to physical confrontation next? Typical. The sound of battle was close but beside the multiple barriers he put around him, there was another source of Terv's confidence.

The mightiest of his minions: a Brutalizer Orc.

This undead monstrosity had the strength of a Level 4 high, decked in the highest quality armor and wielded a powerful enchanted massive sword. The orc, his masterpiece, would buy him the time he needed.

The sounds of battle grew, and Terv's concentration sharpened. Both sides were getting desperate.

"Yes!"

He did it! He reached Level 4! The Intio inside him exploded and reformed as a Level 4 magical core, a new quality of Victa was coursing through his veins. The instant he had a breakthrough, there was a rush of necromantic energy spreading out to each of his minions.

"Now he's dead!"

Terv rose from his mediation position and went out from his tent. He was itching to test his new powers.

"Ah, took you long enough."

"...What is this?"

A man wearing a simple outfit in the colors of the army standing at his doorstep was there. He was surrounded by those flaming butterflies. They made him look ethereal.

Instead of fighting the intruder, the three meters of towering muscle and steel Brutalizer Orc knelt down towards him like he was its king. All around him, the dead were in flames but not quite destroyed, a macabre audience.

"Thank you for your hard work. A green Level 4 soul is still better than Level 3."

Terv didn't quite grasp what he meant from the shock. There was only one thing in his mind, to obliterate the invader. He utilized his new Victa to fuel his deadliest Arte. The grass around him wilted from the sheer power of his Arte.

Arte - Touch of the Unlife!

The man did nothing in response. He was just standing there with crossed arms.

"You are already dead."

Before he knew it, the flames of the soul attack that Terv thought he had kept at bay came rushing in all at once. The power was incomparable to before, a tidal wave of butterflies. The blaze incinerated his soul until his connection to the mortal plane was nothing but darkness.

Terv's body fell down like a puppet when its strings were cut.

Viers extended his hand and Terv's soul came towards him.

"Hm. A bit charred but still worth eating."

Next, he sucked the souls of the undead who had lost their master all at once. A harvest worthy of a grim reaper. In seconds, from the highest death knight to a lowly zombie, all turned to ashes. Even the undead who were attacking the city. Death came for all equally.

From the outside, it looked like a huge bonfire to liberate the souls. A funeral rites of flames.

The Battle of Founwell was over, with crimson butterflies dancing in the night sky.

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