The Undead King of the Palace of Darkness

I can feel the power surging through my body. I truly wonder how long it has been since I was given new life.

The Lord has started to regard me with strong suspicion.

“…There is still no change…hmph…even though he should have already gotten a lot stronger…”

At the laboratory. After our daily hunting routine was over and done with, the Lord quietly groaned and looked at my face. I presumed the face of a puppet.

There’s a rule of thumb to everything. The research on undead does not seem to have progressed very far since the practice of necromancy is prohibited. According to the books, a fleshman was estimated to need from six months to one year to evolve into a ghoul.

Needless to say, this varies from one undead to another.

If an undead is locked in a room with no means to accumulate kills, then no matter how much time passes, it will never undergo any evolution. On the other hand, an undead that participates in a large-scale war, will evolve at a tremendous speed. Meaning that the time needed to evolve from one rank to another is extremely short.

However, as far as my case is concerned, the Lord has been helping me accumulate kills after which he patches me up everyday. It would be inconceivable for me to take longer than the average fleshman to evolve.

It probably has not even been a year since I was resurrected. And I am sure it hasn’t been that long since I started to feel hunger.

But it seems that that short period was more than enough for the Lord to think that something was not quite right with me.

The Lord touches a bony finger to my arm. He peers into my eyes and chants some sort of spell. I cannot understand it. I suppose it’s some type of necromancy spell.

I feel the power welling up inside me. An intense sensation of my extremities heating up as if they are going to grow longer. And yet, I persisted with my silence.

“It does not seem to be a case of insufficient mana…? What am I missing?”

He grimaces and looks at me with an annoyed expression on his face.

There was no doubt that the Lord was an excellent mage. It’s evident from the fact that he has built his mansion deep into the woods, which was home to several ferocious monsters. Also from the countless number of books and dead bodies he was able to obtain.

However, the Lord was limited by his preconceptions and expertise in necromancy.

Fleshmen are the weakest of the undead. They can be easily created and a dead body was all that was necessary. Easy to make use of but extremely vulnerable. A moving puppet that is only capable of following orders. It has no will nor purpose of its own, and therefore is incapable of moving a muscle, unless commanded by the Lord.

My predecessors are also one of the reasons the Lord is caught in the grips of his preconceptions.

My predecessors must have been a run-of-the-mill kind of fleshmen. They must have all foolishly followed the Lord’s orders and their progress of evolution must have been apparent.

They suddenly gain intelligence. According to the books, the undead that evolve from a fleshman into a ghoul could be split into two categories.

Namely, ones that come to terms with their situation and ones that vehemently oppose it.

On the other hand, the Lord could not elicit a response from me. Crippled by his deep understanding of the ranking change that happens with the undead, the Lord is unable to comprehend my case. I am a peerless undead who managed to continue to survive thus far. The Lord is unaware of how to ascertain whether I did truly undergo evolution.

Even though the Lord knows that I have become stronger as a result of accumulating negative energy, his suspicions still remain weak.

The appearance of an undead does not alter upon evolution.

I have certainly changed on the inside but the Lord seems to have forgotten the best possible method of distinction.

If I were him, I would have passed such a command as a shot in the dark.

‘Did you evolve, you bastard? Speak the truth.’

I am bound to the Lord’s commands. If such a question was ever to be raised, I would have no other option but to yield. However, the Lord, who is well-acquainted with the basic nature of undead, which is that they do not possess intelligence, would never pose such a question.

I could never behave out of character or do anything unexpected since I am nothing more than a ‘thing’ to him.

After having examined my whole body, he furrowed his brows and yelled out in a disgruntled tone.

“Roux, bring me a knife!”

☠☠☠

I could hear soft footsteps come to a halt in front of the door, and silence for a while as if there was some hesitation, after which the door opened with a creak.

There is one more living being in this mansion besides the Lord.

Although low on the scale of danger, I have always kept an eye on that figure.

In came a frightened girl dressed in filthy rags.

It was a young girl with black hair. I would say she was in her mid twenties. Scraggly and short statured. Scrawny arms and legs.

And as a defining trait there was a long, narrow, black collar around her neck. She was a slave and that was the proof.

Her eyes were dull and clouded much like an undead’s. Her lips were chapped and if one were not careful she could easily be mistaken for a fleshman.

I did not know her name. But the girl that the Lord called ‘Roux’, was a slave that he owned.

Even if the undead were powerful and capable of killing monsters, they were unsuitable for any delicate work. So it was her job to help around the laboratory and wait on the Lord.

She cleaned around the mansion, made the food and put away the books. Unlike the Lord, she did not seem to possess night vision which was evident from the fact that she needed a light to walk through the passageways. Contrary to the Lord, she did not seem to have a set routine. I almost bumped into her a few times during my searching expeditions.

I calmly looked at her. It would spell trouble if Roux were to happen across me, someone who is supposed to be in the cellar and ends up reporting to the Lord. However, at the same time, she could never do that.

Slaves do not possess a will of their own much like the undead. The collar around her neck is a magic tool that made a slave submit to their Lord’s orders.

It had the power of controlling the slave’s thoughts to a certain extent and is capable of bending their will in order to obey the Lord’s orders.

Roux was more strongly inclined to fear the Lord than I did. And I could see fear dwell in the eyes that looked at me as well.

She possessed a will, but not free will. She could only do as ordered by the Lord.

“The knife.”

Roux panics and pulls out a knife from out of her pocket and approaches the Lord. He takes the knife from her outstretched hand and nonchalantly hits her on her head knocking her off-balance.

“You dawdling scum.”

Contrary to his tone that was full of malice, there was no anger in the Lord’s eyes. I am afraid it was simply done out of spite. Even if not for that, the Lord did not treat her any better or worse than a slave would normally be treated.

Roux collapses. The Lord cracks his knuckles and stabs the knife into my right arm.

The dull pain I felt emanating from my arm was probably hundred times weaker than what I would have originally felt had I been alive. And that also pointed towards the fact that there was progression in my evolution process.

The undead are cursed. I, who was merely a ‘moving corpse’, was drawing closer to becoming an even more repulsive existence due to the accumulation of negative energy.

This is certainly more awful than being a fleshman with no sense of pain. And yet, it was nothing compared to what I had to endure when I was alive.

Not much blood spilled from the wound. There must still be no proper circulation of blood in my body. According to the books, an even ‘higher’ undead possesses a body similar to that of a human being.

The Lord gouged at the wound to check my condition.

I get through it with my face betraying none of my emotions. It hurts, hurts, hurts, hurts…it does not hurt. It does…not hurt.

The Lord slowly let go of the knife. He spat out Roux an order as he kept his eyes fixed on me.

“…still a fleshman I see… You! Report to me should there be any changes to the condition of the wound.”

“Ah….h…”

“ Where’s my answer?”

“Gah…”

A violent sound fills the room. It is said that mages strengthen their body with the help of magic.

The Lord may look all skin and bones, but he should be strong in his own way. Having taken a kick to her gut, Roux goes flying like a ball.

The Lord simply stared at her with no particular emotion on his face.

The gash in my arm oozed blood and hurt.

Whenever I got wounded during the hunt, the Lord would heal me with magic. It was a necessary measure if you intend to make long use of a fleshman, as it does not possess the ability to regenerate.

The time it takes for a wound to heal. One of the biggest distinguishing factors of a ghoul from a fleshman is that the latter has no regenerative abilities. That is what he must have meant when he ordered her to report any changes in my condition.

It appears that the Lord is trying to ascertain my evolution from a different angle rather than just the manifestation of a sense of self.

Well, considering the number of monsters I have killed, it was only natural he would consider it strange that I show no change. I had expected for this to happen sooner or later.

However…he is too naive. His plans would be rendered futile if he utters his intentions right in front of me.

I started on my plan after I was returned to the morgue as usual.

I bend my arm to check how much the wound has healed. Ghouls had better regenerative capabilities than humans. The would had already begun to close up. The regeneration did not happen in a flash like when healing magic is applied but a wound of this severity should only take a day to heal.

Furthermore, the higher the rank of an undead the stronger the regenerative capability. I am lucky that I am still just in the stage of a ghoul. I raise my left hand and slowly make knife-sharp claws out of my nails. The claws were no inferior to the knife used by the Lord to dig into my arm.

I thrust my claws into my own arm, to make the wound appear as it did when it was first made. Pain emanated from the wound and slowly made its way up and sent shocks through my heart.

By no means, was this more painful than when the Lord stabbed the knife into my arm.

The thing is, I had never hurt myself before. I was of the thought that I, who had not possessed a normal body ever since I could remember…could never hurt myself even if the sun were to rise in the west.

My eyes are dry as this body does not produce tears, but my heart is weeping. I feel an ache coming from the depths of my head, but I stifle it. This is something I must…do.

I shall slay the one binding me. I will have to kill Lord Horus Carmon who has absolute control over me. He is inhuman. I am nothing more than a sort of a slave to him.

I have to bide my time until I become stronger. I would do anything necessary to create a chance.

The Lord is strong. On top of which he has absolute control over me. He is not an opponent I can win against as I am now. But that does not mean there has been no case of an undead successfully having defied its master.

There were several books in the library that had recorded instances of defiance displayed by an undead as a word of caution.

Right now, the Lord has imposed low restrictions on my movements. If the situation remains the same, and I evolve into an even stronger undead…the odds may be against me, but I may be able to defeat him.

He may be the absolute but he is not omnipotent.

I dig into the wound, slowly, as if to harden my resolve. The wound may look a bit different from the one made by a knife, but I doubt the difference is noticeable.

After checking the size of the wound, I pull out my claws and enclose my mouth around them. I use my tongue to lick the blood and tissue off them. My palate that even considered the bear’s heart delicious, felt no pleasure in partaking of my own flesh and blood.

It would spell trouble if someone were to notice my bloodied hand. As I passed my tongue over my claws, I suddenly heard a sound.

I look up. I do not know when…I had completely failed to realize it.

There stood Roux, looking at me with her eyes wide open. The skin around her eyes were bruised and her lips were swollen and bleeding. Dark circles clung to her eyes…she appeared very similar to an undead. But, her line of sight was evidently in the direction of the fingers in my mouth.

Our eyes meet. Before I could say anything, she scampers off like a scared rabbit.

I failed. I was seen. She may be a slave but I am sure even a slave can tell that my behavior was out of the ordinary.

I start to give chase but decide against it at the last minute. I cannot run after her. I am sure to be found out by the Lord if I were to do that. I mean, what could I do even if caught up to her? Convince her? Is that even a feasible option in my mind?

I am an undead. An undead that was created by the mage, Lord Horus Carmon.

I cannot be trusted by any means. I would never trust me if I were her.

In that case, I need not chase after her. It would be game over if the Lord were to discover me chasing after her. Because…the Lord never ordered me to do such a thing.

I calm myself down. There was not a single drop of blood left on my fingers.

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