Chapter 66: The Cold, Bitter Truth.

Thoren’s expression did not change as he stared at Minerva. Her tears, her vulnerability, and the guilt that gnawed at her from the inside meant nothing to him.

There was no flicker of hesitation in his eyes, no trace of sympathy.

To him, her breakdown was nothing more than an expected outcome, an inevitable consequence of weakness colliding with reality.

Cries and faint whispers echoed throughout the battlefield clearing as the undead finished off the last member of the Glorious Path Party.

The air was thick with the stench of blood unnatural aura radiating from the undead.

Thoren clicked his tongue softly and shook his head in mild annoyance.

From the corner of his eye, he spotted Rowena kneeling several steps away.

One hand clutched her injured shoulder, slick with blood as she desperately tried to stop the bleeding.

Her breathing was labored, uneven, each breath scraping painfully against her chest.

Paladins were powerful, undeniably.

They were the natural bane of undead energy, blessed with holy power that could purify corruption and erase necromantic constructs with righteous force.

But there were many ways to kill a paladin.

And one of the most effective methods was simple: do not give them the chance to use their holy energy.

Four Level 12 Undead Stonewall Warriors stood around Rowena, their massive frames unmoving, stone spears leveled precisely at her vitals. Their empty eye sockets glowed faintly with soul fire.

With a single mental command from Thoren, the spears would pierce her body simultaneously, leaving her no room to react.

Rowena glanced toward Minerva, her best friend, who was wailing desperately, sobbing as she tried to catch the attention of the devil they had come to capture.

Her cries were hoarse now, broken by despair rather than hope.

Rowena’s gaze drifted to the corpses scattered around them, and she could not help but let out a quiet, bitter sigh.

Before coming here, she had truly believed that with her holy power, she could easily subdue him.

What could a mere necromancer possibly do in the face of divine light?

She had been filled with pride.

With confidence.

She had not even bothered to take the so-called rookie seriously.

Yet.

Here they were.

At his mercy.

Could she really be blamed?

With her entire party backing her, how could she have known they were not facing a rookie necromancer, but a monster wearing human skin?

The Abyss was dangerous, everyone knew that.

It was a realm of death, madness, and horrors beyond comprehension.

But compared to the boy standing before her now, Rowena felt that the Abyss was far less terrifying.

Thud.

Thud.

Soft, deliberate footsteps echoed through the stillness.

They were light.

Casual.

Yet.

The crunch of stone beneath the sole of his boots, accompanied by the gentle whistle of the wind, sent chills racing down their spines.

Each step carried an invisible weight, pressing down on their souls.

Minerva shuddered violently.

Her muscles stiffened, refusing to obey her commands.

She could feel his presence drawing closer.

Each step felt as though it was crushing her heart beneath his heel.

Her breath hitched.

The space around her seemed to narrow, the air growing thick and suffocating.

The world shrank, collapsing inward until only the sound of his footsteps remained.

Is this the end…?

Why didn’t I listen to the captain’s words?

Why am I even trying to stay alive?

Am I even worth saving?

Darkness crept into her consciousness, consuming her from within. With everything that had happened, Minerva felt all strength drain from her body.

Because of her misguided sense of justice, dozens of people had died.

And for what?

She had led them here.

She had insisted.

She had pushed forward, convinced she was right.

If this was the justice she claimed to uphold.

Justice bought at the cost of innocent lives, then perhaps she was no different from the boy she condemned.

He had never come for them.

She had dragged them to him.

To their deaths.

People with bright futures.

People the Federation could have relied upon to fight against the Abyss.

But now.

Gone.

Lost forever.

So consumed by guilt and despair was Minerva that she failed to realize Thoren had already walked past her.

He stopped in front of Rowena.

A faint smile curved his lips, a smile that never reached his eyes.

“Tell me,” he said calmly, his voice low and clear, laced with chilling nonchalance, “why I should not kill you.”

The way he spoke gave the illusion that the outcome was irrelevant to him. Whether she lived or died made no difference.

Her death meant nothing to him.

That realization struck harder than any physical pain she had ever endured.

Rowena slowly lifted her head, her throat dry as she opened her mouth to speak. But the moment her eyes met his.

Her words died.

Under his penetrating blue gaze, she knew instinctively that if she uttered even a single meaningless word, he would not hesitate to turn her into an undead servant.

That thought alone terrified her to the core.

She was a paladin.

If she were turned into an undead—

What kind of existence would that make her?

She swallowed hard.

Her lips trembled as she struggled to organize her thoughts.

“…I—I don’t know,” she said at last, her voice barely above a whisper.

It was the truth.

They had come to arrest him, to drag him back to Federation custody.

Why?

Because he was a necromancer.

Because he commanded undead that still bore human forms.

That was all.

For a brief moment, Thoren was genuinely surprised. He had expected begging.

Lies.

Justifications.

Hollow excuses.

Instead, she had chosen to say, I don’t know.

“Interesting…” he murmured.

He studied the paladin intently, his gaze piercing through her defenses as though he were peeling back layers of her soul, searching for deceit.

Rowena trembled, but she did not avert her eyes.

“Do you know of the Slave Trade Guild?” Thoren asked suddenly.

The Slave Trade Guild?

Rowena froze, confusion etched across her face.

Minerva flinched and slowly turned her head toward him.

Dried tear tracks marked her cheeks.

The light that once burned in her eyes was gone, along with her sense of righteousness.

“Slave Trade Guild…?” she murmured faintly, as though grasping for a distant memory.

Before either of them could recall more, Thoren continued.

“Who within the Federation would know my name and class among the Federation Police officers?”

Minerva inhaled shallowly before answering in a hollow voice. “Apart from the captains and the Police Chief… no one should know the names or professions of awakeners. That information is classified.”

Silence fell.

Heavy.

Oppressive.

Thoren let out a quiet breath and shook his head.

“I see,” he muttered.

A faint trace of mockery flickered across his face.

“I suppose the Federation Police are far more corrupt than I originally thought.”

The weight of his words landed far heavier than they had expected.

None of the girls could bring themselves to speak. The silence was not born of confusion, but of instinct.

They could feel it, there was more beneath his words, something unspoken yet pressing, like a blade hovering inches above their throats.

“I’m not afraid to be labeled evil…” Thoren broke the silence at last. His voice was calm, almost indifferent. “…I don’t give a shit about what others call me or how they view me. But—”

He paused.

The temperature seemed to drop several degrees in an instant. Even the undead standing nearby felt colder, their soul flames flickering faintly.

“They must be damned sure,” he continued quietly, “that I committed the evil they are accusing me of.”

The words were not shouted.

They did not need to be.

“I could kill both of you right here, right now,” Thoren went on, his gaze sweeping over them with detached clarity, “and it wouldn’t change a thing.”

Minerva flinched.

“Do you know what I found inside the ancient city?” he asked. “A pool of human blood.”

He let the image settle before continuing.

“Not ordinary blood. Blood used for sacrifice.”

Rowena’s breath caught in her throat.

“Tell me,” Thoren said, his tone sharpening, “who among the awakeners possesses enough power, enough influence, to sacrifice hundreds of awakeners and use their blood for rituals?”

No one answered.

He turned slowly, his gaze locking onto Minerva. There was no anger in his eyes, only disdain.

“You thought you were working for the good of the people,” he said coldly. “But you’re nothing more than a puppet dancing on someone else’s string.”

Minerva’s hands trembled.

“Professions are not evil,” Thoren continued. “Humans are.”

Each word struck like a hammer.

“Under your so-called righteous authority, hundreds of civilians were kidnapped. Their organs were harvested. Their blood drained and was used as offerings.”

He took a step closer.

“What are you going to do about that?” he asked again.

Silence.

“…Nothing,” Minerva whispered at last.

Thoren scoffed softly.

“Exactly.”

He gestured toward the scattered corpses around them—the fallen mages, and warriors who had come with unwavering faith in their mission.

“Look around you,” he said. “Their deaths are on you.”

Minerva felt her knees weaken.

“If you had listened,” Thoren went on, “if you had allowed me to speak…this wouldn’t have happened.” He shook his head slowly, as though disappointed. “But no. You wanted to prove something. To them. To yourself.”

He waved the thought away, clearly too tired to continue chastising her.

“The Slave Trade Guild is operating openly within the town,” he said instead. “They have enough influence to send assassins after me following our previous encounter.”

His voice hardened.

“What I want from you is simple. Investigate who among the Federation Police are acting as their spies. This operation has been running for years, they must have left a trail.”

He paused, then added, “As for the Slave Trade Guild…”

A faint smile curved his lips.

“Leave them to me.”

Thoren turned his gaze toward Rowena.

“May I know your name?” he asked suddenly, flashing her a bright, disarming smile that felt entirely out of place.

Rowena froze.

Stunned, she slowly opened her mouth. “…Rowena.”

“Rowena,” he repeated, nodding. “That’s a nice name.”

“I’ll remember it.”

Her heart skipped a beat.

“I’ll give both of you two days,” Thoren said calmly. “Find the spies. After that, you can expect my visit.”

He turned and began to walk away.

“I hope our next meeting will be far more pleasant than this,” he added with a low chuckle.

He raised his hand.

[Undead Summoning.]

[Bone Manipulation]

Necromantic energy surged across the battlefield.

As Thoren departed, the fallen corpses began to rise one after another.

Flesh sloughed from bone in slow, unnatural motions.

Skin peeled away, revealing ivory frames beneath, slick with blood.

Soulless, hollow eyes ignited with yellowish soul fire.

Rowena and Minerva stood frozen, jaws slack, unable to look away as death itself answered his call.

The battlefield was silent once more.

But this time, it was filled with the sound of bones moving.

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