The Necromancer's Servant

The moonlight delicately spread its silver softness across the ground, making the jagged rocky terrain appear less harsh. Asa leaned against a rock near the campfire, gazing at the moon, unwilling to close his eyes.

The moonlight was so beautiful and gentle, even his exposed skin can feel its soft touch. He wouldn't be able to see the clear moonlight like this in Kalendor. The clouds and coal smoke that perpetually hung over the basin made any attempt to glimpse the sky impossible.

It had been over a month since he left Kalendor. But whenever he thought back, the smell of molten iron and burning coal immediately resurfaced in his nose, and the sound of hammers striking steel seemed as if it had only faded a minute ago. The memory of his father raising his hammer the night before he left was etched so deeply in his mind that it almost replaced the feelings of his twenty years living in Kalendor.

His father's stoic, granite-like face glowed in the light of the forge like an altar. Muscles, knotted like tree roots, coiled along his arms as the hammer struck rhythmically. Each blow sent a tremor through the blade that Asa could feel in his hands—this was father's influence, a connection that made Asa feel, for the first time, truly linked to him.

The shape of the blade gradually appear. When father took the blade from Asa's hands and began to flip it over, Asa lost that connection, and he knew that their bond would fade away as the blade was completed. He felt a sense of excitement, because this blade symbolized the beginning of his new life, the true start of his journey. Each strike seemed to hammer his hopes into the steel.

This was going to be a fine blade, better than anything in his father's shop, forged from the finest iron ore that Asa had secretly gathered over five years.

He was the most rebellious child in Kalendor Basin, not because he caused trouble in his youth or indulged in wild behavior as a teenager like others. He didn't rebel against life within its boundaries, but against the entirety of that life itself from the very beginning.

Kalendor Basin had a century-old tradition of metallurgy. The mountains surrounding the basin were so rich in minerals, and the dwarves who lived in the caves were accustomed to interacting with humans, even living among them. This made Kalendor the center of the continent's metallurgical expertise. The people there embraced this tradition, and generation after generation, they lived by it. Very few people had ever left the basin, as the basin not only trapped their steps but also seemed to imprison their minds. Growing up amidst mining, smelting, and forging, most men inherited these trades when they grew up.

Over the years, an unspoken rule formed in Kalendor: once a man turned twenty, he was expected to inherit his father's craft, as a farmer, or merchant, or most often as a miner or blacksmith. No one knew exactly when or from whom this tradition had started, but it was strictly followed, becoming one of the few cultural roots of this otherwise isolated and barren basin.

Until he was five, Asa was no different from other children who grew up amidst the heat of the forge and the sounds of hammering. But when he turned five, he became obsessed with the stories about the outside world told by the old adventurer in the village. Gigantic dragons that could lift a cow into the sky and devour it, beautiful mermaids that lured sailors with their songs, living corpses, golems, all kinds of non-human creatures, nations that worshipped the elements of nature, strange customs, and an endless blue sky dotted with wisps of white clouds, a mysterious, boundless ocean, and vast grasslands where one could ride for three days and nights without reaching the end.

Unlike the other children who were content to listen and fantasize, Asa believed that was the real world—the one meant for him. So he began learning everything about the outside world from the old adventurer: how to survive in swamps and deserts, how to identify plants, the habits of various non-human races, how to fight, and how to set traps. He explored every desolate and remote place in the basin, spending months in isolation, imagining that he was in the magical world beyond, honing his survival skills. To strengthen his body and gain the strength to fight orcs without fear, he trained every day and fought people much older than him. By the time he was fourteen, all the bullies and thieves in the basin no longer dared come near his village. When he was fifteen, he began sneaking into the iron mines to steal the finest ore whenever he found it.

Asa's father was a man of few words, the owner of a small weapons shop. His mother had passed away long ago. To Asa, home was just a place to rest, and his father was just an elder who lived with him. He spent his life dreaming of a world beyond, every day training, secretly accumulating ore, and savoring the feeling of getting one step closer to his dream.

The week before Asa's 20th birthday, he handed over all the iron ore he'd secretly stashed away to his father, asking him to forge a sword. He also told his father that he was leaving. His father did not try to stop him, nor did he ask where he was going. After a long silence, his father took the ore to the smelting shop and crafted the refined iron into a sword. Then, Asa left Kalendor with the blade, joining a caravan of foreign traders who had come to make purchases.

Asa ran his fingers lightly along the blade's edge. This sword embodied his entire life up to that point. He flicked it with a finger, and it hummed softly—a sound that could be heard as a lament, or perhaps an ode.

"Good sword." A voice, harsh as the grating of two dull blades clashing, broke the silence. A one-eyed veteran by the fire had awoken, staring at Asa. The firelight flickered across his face, which barely resembled a human's anymore.

Half of his face was sunken in, with muscles and shattered bones mixed together, a result of a blow from some heavy blunt weapon. The other half bore a long, deep scar from his forehead to his mouth, with smaller scars crossing around it, distorting his features. It was a face wrecked by injuries, but even more astonishing was that this man had somehow survived them all.

Asa offered the old soldier a friendly smile. This was a man who had fought on the battlefield for decades but had never managed to die there. It was said that he had over a hundred wounds of various sizes all over his body. Because he never seemed to die, some in the army called him "the Old Immortal."

"Where'd you fight before?" The old veteran assumed Asa was a mercenary, seeing that his sword wasn't a standard equipment for any regular army.

Asa shook his head. He had only joined this scouting unit in Bracada when he saw they were recruiting mercenaries. After leaving Kalendor, Asa realized that living freely in the outside world wasn't as simple as he had imagined. Everything cost money: food, supplies, even adventure gear. He had almost considered joining a band of mountain bandits or fighting for street gangs when he saw the recruitment notice and signed up.

This unit of about a hundred soldiers was half composed of temporary recruits from the Bracada area. There were farmers, vagrants, and even a few fugitives mixed in. It was an undisciplined yet lively group. Despite his rough appearance, the old veteran was one of the few regular soldiers in the unit.

The old veteran, apparently unable to fall back asleep, struck up a conversation with Asa. "You've got some skill, kid. What made you want to become a soldier?"

"Had nothing better to do. Honestly, I was thinking about becoming a robber," Asa replied candidly.

The old soldier let out a raspy laugh that sounded like a pot being smashed. Asa noticed a scar on his throat, likely an injury that had damaged his vocal cords. "You're an funny guy. Sometimes, being a robber isn't all that bad compared to being a soldier—at least it's less dangerous. Robbers rob when they can and run away when they can't. As a soldier, even when you should retreat, your commander might order you to charge."

"Then don't charge. Just run when you need to," Asa suggested plainly.

"The commander will cut off your head" the old soldier replied.

"Then you just cut off the commander's head first, and then run." Asa shrugged, as if it were the most natural solution.

The old soldier chuckled again, a hoarse, grating sound. "There's no soldier like that."

"Who would let someone else order them to die? If they want me to charge to my death, why don't they go die first to show me how it's done?" Asa questioned, genuinely puzzled.

The old soldier shook his head, his remaining eye growing distant. His distorted features twisted into an expression that was hard for others to understand, and he muttered softly, "When you're a soldier, that's just the way it is."

The sound of clinking armor came closer. Asa knew it was Captain Sanders approaching—he was the only one still patrolling in full steel armor at this hour.

"Why aren't you asleep yet? We have a mission tomorrow," Captain Sanders said as he walked up, still fully equipped. His steel armor, helmet, sword at his left, shield at his right—they all seemed as if they were part of his body, never removed. Both his armor and shield bore a sunken cross, a symbol Asa had heard was the mark of the Holy Knights, a famed order even in his distant, isolated homeland.

"We were just discussing the wisdom of being a soldier," Asa responded honestly.

"We're heading to bed now, Captain," the old soldier quickly interjected, not wanting Asa to say too much.

Captain Sanders nodded, speaking kindly, "Just making my rounds." His tone and expression were warm, and even his face seemed oddly endearing. Among the regular soldiers, he held high respect, though the other temporary recruits like Asa found him somewhat indifferent.

Noble families rarely earned much respect from ordinary people. So the fact that veterans didn't hate Sanders already means he is respectful. Asa, however, felt a kind of reverence for him. Though he had never seen Sanders fight, he sensed that the captain was far stronger than himself.

Sanders looked at Asa closely and asked, "Are you the new recruit who took down four infantrymen during the selection?"

During recruitment, prospective soldiers had to prove their strength by fighting several infantrymen. Asa had easily overpowered men much larger than himself.

"I am," Asa answered.

Sanders nodded approvingly. "You've got talent. Keep it up—you'll do well."

Though Asa had his doubts about being a soldier after his conversation with the old veteran, he couldn't help but feel a surge of pride and nodded eagerly in response to the praise.

Not all nobles are arrogant and despicable, Asa thought. Compliments always made one feel good, and he couldn't even remember the last time anyone had praised him.

Suddenly, a sharp alarm rang out from the sentry post, piercing the quiet of the night and shattering the stillness of the wilderness.