Chapter 317: Lich Phylactery, New Member of the Church of Night

"We have limited time. Let us hasten to gather the materials and secure all the alchemical components required for the next six months of the academy's term; the cost of opening a planar rift is simply too exorbitant."

In the Undead Plane, a rift that had just been torn open sealed shut after several members of the Sky Mechanical City Academy stepped through. The lead mage instructed his companions.

"The mineral deposits near this fixed exit have been largely depleted by the denizens of this plane in recent years. We must venture further afield."

A knight drew an alchemical instrument from his belt and swept it across the surrounding ground, confirming that the earth nearby held nothing they required.

"Then take these mining golems with you. Remember to keep a close watch on the movements of the local undead; do not let a large swarm surround you. Without me to carry these alchemical machines, their movement speed is far too sluggish. If these things are destroyed, this entire trip will have been for naught."

The mage opened the magitech storage unit issued by the academy, releasing a dozen metallic cubes. Upon emerging, the cubes rapidly shifted, unfolding from their compact states into their functional forms—a dozen mining machines, each equipped with a drill for a left hand and iron pincers for a right.

These alchemical constructs were the primary labor force for the expedition. Unlike living beings, these pure machines were not suppressed by the plane's laws. Neither the knights nor the mages in the party could match the efficiency of these combat-inept constructs when it came to excavation.

"Understood. We shall take these machines to collect the common materials in the surrounding area. You should remain here to acclimate yourself to the planar suppression before coming to join us."

The knight who had spoken earlier nodded, gathered the mining machines, and departed with the other academy members, leaving the lead mage in the safety zone near the rift exit to adjust to the crushing weight of the plane's influence.

The mage erected a simple barrier around himself, then closed his eyes, beginning to meditate and absorb the ambient mana of the Undead Plane. This practice of assimilating the local essence helped mitigate the intensity of the planar suppression.

His strength was not yet sufficient; he needed to adapt before he could cast high-level prospecting spells to pinpoint the locations of the ores they sought.

During his meditation, the barrier would alert him to any disturbances in the vicinity. Although the area near the rift was considered a "safe zone" that had been cleared multiple times, one could never abandon basic vigilance.

The grey, semi-corporeal mana was drawn into the meditating mage, causing a shroud of grey mist to swirl around his shielded form. Undead mana was inherently harmful to the living; he would need to rely on medicine to purge the side effects once he returned.

Unbeknownst to him, the grey mist began to take on a faint, dark hue. He remained unaware, continuing to absorb the unique mana of this realm, allowing the Undead Plane to gradually accept him.

"Snap..."

The mage, sitting cross-legged on the ground, felt one of his feet twitch unnaturally, scraping against the earth with a soft, silent sound. Without a whisper, a stream of blood, dark as red wine, trickled from his nostrils, staining his mage robes a deep crimson.

His brows knit together, and his body began to convulse violently. His expression twisted in agony; the steady, rhythmic breathing of his meditation shattered into chaotic gasps, yet his face remained a ghastly, uncontrollable shade of purplish-blue.

The blood was no longer content to flow from his nostrils alone; his eyes, ears, and mouth began to bleed profusely. Half a minute later, the convulsions subsided. The mage’s face turned deathly pale, but his expression was no longer one of pain.

"Hiss..."

He opened his mouth, and a wisp of black fog drifted out, vanishing into the air, carrying with it the faint, desperate wail of suffering.

His tightly shut eyes snapped open, revealing dried blood crusting his sockets. His gaze was entirely different from before—cold, calculating, and laced with disdain.

"A frail vessel, yet it will suffice. That dragon is in the Sky Mechanical City; I cannot act recklessly there. I must find a way to lure it to the Undead Plane or an isolated space, lest I be locked onto by the alchemical machine legions. That would be troublesome."

He flexed the fingers of the mage’s body he now occupied, the joints popping with a sharp crack. Having misjudged his strength, he snapped the index finger of the vessel—which was far more fragile than his true Lich-Dragon form—and Varma muttered to himself.

"My master has already wasted too much time chasing that silver dragon. I cannot squander my master's time further by purging the heretical dragons of the continent. Find it, eliminate it in one stroke, and then devote all resources to dealing with that silver dragon."

The red lines in his vision cut off at a certain point; Varma, the Lich-Dragon who had devoured and annihilated the mage’s soul, had already extracted sufficient information from the victim's memories.

A curious object? The guidance of the blood-red mark terminated exactly where the planar rift was located. As long as he passed through this spatial bridge, he could reach the Sky Mechanical City.

"I shall take a small risk. Otherwise, the power this shell can exert is far too limited..."

A blade formed of black energy manifested between Varma's fingers. Without hesitation, he plunged it into his own chest, slicing through it as if it were tofu.

No blood flowed from the massive gash; the blood in this vessel had already drained away when Varma took possession. It was, at this moment, nothing more than a living corpse.

With his chest split open, the mage’s hand reached into the cavity, producing a chilling sound of tearing flesh as he pried the ribcage apart, revealing the shriveled organs still functioning under the influence of undead mana.

"Click, click, click..."

The ground before him cracked open, and Varma’s original body emerged from beneath. With the same cold efficiency, he sliced open the chest of his original form, and the blade of black energy cut through the hearts of both bodies without a moment's hesitation.

An invisible force manifested, extracting a metal cube the size of a thumb joint from the heart of his original body and shoving it into the gaping wound of the mage’s heart.

Mana swirled, and phantom needles of grey-black thread appeared, stitching the heart and chest cavity shut. From the outside, the mage’s body appeared perfectly normal once more.

The object transferred from his original body was one of the most vital components of a lich’s existence: the phylactery. With this, Varma could exert sufficient power while inhabiting this vessel.

"Crackle..."

Varma’s palm wiped across his cheeks and neck, erasing the bloodstains. Even his pallid complexion shifted to a healthy hue under the influence of his magic, while the Lich-Dragon’s original body was buried once more beneath the earth.

He looked up, his gaze fixing on the companions of the mage he now occupied as they returned from the distance. He raised his palm.

The power within the phylactery at his heart surged incessantly, and undead mana gathered like a storm. Countless skeletal hands erupted from the soil, clawing at the unsuspecting victims, tearing through iron armor, shredding fragile flesh, and burying their bodies and souls forever in the dead, silent earth of the Undead Plane.

...

Outside the region of the former Sewentan Kingdom, now the Alestler Kingdom, the caravan of the Nightfall Church was traveling along a winding merchant road through the forest. The path was rugged, and the carriage jolted whenever the wheels struck roots or loose stones, causing the passengers inside to sway.

"Does the Church have any other rules?"

A middle-aged man, who looked to be in his forties with a clean-shaven face and smooth skin, yet possessed an air of having weathered many storms, asked the goblin sitting beside him, who was clutching his seat in irritation.

"No, no! This is the third time you've asked me. We don't have 'rules' in our Church, do you understand? I know the three of you were expelled from your previous church and still cling to your old habits, but you need to adapt to the Nightfall Church quickly, all right?"

Elliot impatiently emphasized to Damian, the newly joined member of the Nightfall Church, that they had no such rules and begged him to stop asking.

"How can that be? The Church of Light has its own commandments and creeds, and our former church had fifteen divine admonitions—things we were once strictly required to uphold."

"Without these rules established according to the divine will, how are we to follow in the footsteps of the gods, execute their will, and spread their radiance?"

Damian did not spare the goblin, who was already suffering from his relentless questioning, but stubbornly sought an answer, voicing his thoughts.

"If you must insist, we do have one: be a good person. The fact that you three chose to stop believing in that fake 'God of Justice' whose actions never matched his slogans already makes you good people. Just don't do evil from now on."

"And by the way, your phrasing is wrong. We worship the Lady of the Night, so we don't 'spread radiance'—we spread darkness, letting more people bathe in the darkness of the Lady of the Night. Do you understand?"

Elliot spoke at a rapid-fire pace; he was truly at his wit's end.

Operating on the principle of spreading the faith of the Lady of the Night to everyone he met, Elliot had offered help to three ragged, beggar-like individuals they encountered on the road, inviting them to join the faith.

He hadn't expected that these three were former believers who had been deceived by some unknown evil god, only to realize the truth and defect. They had been wandering for years, and upon hearing Elliot’s invitation and learning a bit about the Nightfall Church’s ways, they had agreed immediately.

Elliot had initially been happy to spread the faith, but he hadn't anticipated that while two of them were silent, the third was a chatterbox who had been firing questions at him for nearly an hour.

"Here is the scripture of the Lady of the Night, Mr. Damian. If you wish to read it, you may."

Emon, who was driving the carriage in front, turned back through the curtain, poked his head in, and handed a book to Damian.

Elliot had never heard a voice as beautiful as Emon’s. His own mind, muddled by the endless questions, had failed to realize he could simply hand the man the scripture to read for himself.

"Thank you."

Damian took the Nightfall Scripture—a book originally claimed to be written by the Lady of the Night, but in reality, a collection of nonsense scribbled by Wang Yu—and thanked him.

However, the copy in his hands was no longer the first edition. The paper was made of common materials; the original copies were held only by the Blades of Night and Wang Yu himself, kept as mementos.

This current version had been organized with the help of Aivia, and the Lady of the Night herself had written a few passages into it. It was certainly much better than the version Wang Yu had cobbled together by copying random texts, which had been notable only for its practicality and its air of mysterious authority.

Damian took the scripture and immediately buried his head in it, reading intently. The jolting of the carriage could not shake his steady hands as he held the book.

Seeing the man’s extreme focus, Elliot felt a weight lift from his heart. Surely, the man would have no time to bother him now. But he had not realized that this was merely the beginning of his nightmare.

"Mr. Elliot, may I ask what this sentence means? I don't quite understand."

"Damn it all... which line? Let me see. What is there to be confused about? It means you should secure your own livelihood first before wasting time on rituals or proselytizing."

"But shouldn't faith take precedence over life itself? To hold Her as our guiding star—is that not the very meaning of our existence as believers?"

Damian read with intense focus, his eyes scanning the pages rapidly; whenever he encountered something incomprehensible, he would immediately question Elliot, and there was far too much he failed to grasp.

"Ah... what kind of twisted logic is this? Even a fanatic wouldn't go that far. Our most devout followers just shout 'Lady Night is magnificent' or 'I love you' every now and then. Flip further ahead; I recall the Arch-Bishop writing about your specific case in the scriptures."

Elliot covered his face, wanting to refute the boy's words, but remembering that the scriptures indeed contained passages on such believers, he hurriedly flipped through the pages in Damian's hands, urging him to read for himself.

Damian turned to the corresponding page, stared at the paragraphs titled "The Useless Zealot," and froze.

"Ask first if it is useful, then ask if it is pious. Instead of shouting all day, you would do better to earn a hundred gold coins for the Church and feed a few fellow believers. If you truly succeed, then as Arch-Bishop, I thank you; you are the most devout child of Lady Night, and I shall make up for the prayers you missed..."

"This... isn't this a bit too materialistic? Shouldn't our pursuit in worshipping the Divine be spiritual sublimation?"

His words faltered, the storm-like intensity with which he had interrogated Elliot earlier now significantly dampened, and Damian turned to ask Elliot once more.

"Good heavens, have you even grasped why we worship Lady Night? If that is truly what you seek, why not worship the God of Light? His scriptures are filled with exactly that sort of thing."

"We worship Lady Night because She actually watches over us, and because we, the people of the Night Church, have made our lives much easier by sticking together. Hurry up and flip to the last page."

Damian wanted to say more, but Elliot had already turned the book to the final page, which bore words written in the voice of Lady Night.

"I hope that one day, My followers will no longer need to pray to Me to possess the lives they desire, and that even then, you will still remember My existence..."

Unconsciously, Damian recited the words aloud, his expression turning inscrutable, while the two other new members who had joined the Night Church alongside him lifted their heads, as if struck by a sudden realization.