The Undead

In the early morning of July, year 673 of the Davorma Era, the sharp ring of a magic timer echoed through the guild dormitory.

Luo Yan groaned. He slapped the timer quiet, lay there for a moment, then finally pushed himself up.

Another day. More work.

The sunlight in the corridor was bright and almost painful. His vision swayed for a few seconds, like it always did when he woke up. Allen had once said it was a side effect of overworking on magic experiments. Luo Yan didn’t really understand the theory. His disciple liked talking about strange concepts and odd ideas. But the boy was talented and endlessly creative. Luo Yan, a middle-aged mage, couldn’t help but admire him.

If only that faint, cold light didn’t sometimes flash behind Allen’s cheerful eyes.

After a deep breath, the dizziness faded. Hunger replaced it. He thought of breakfast and quickened his pace.

Fresh fish roe from the Gona River. Cream-roasted cabbage. Venison-pumpkin pie.

Not bad at all.

The Magic Guild had offered free meals for registered mages for about a century. Officially, the goal was to keep mages from worrying about survival so they could devote themselves to research. But according to rumor, everything started with a “tragic accident” in the Seiya City branch 120 years ago.

Nearly ten mages had been poisoned by badly prepared magical beast entrails. Three were bedridden for half a year. One of the greatest alchemists of the era died. Research stalled. Projects collapsed. The loss was worse than any battle.

After that, the Guild President issued an order:

“Let professionals handle food. Dying of bad meals is the greatest shame for a mage.”

The ancient Magic Tower rose in front of Luo Yan as he left the side building. Sunlight spilled through the arches, scattering colors on the stone floor and forcing him to narrow his eyes again.

For some reason, today felt too bright. As if something was about to happen.

Inside the dining hall, only a handful of mages sat scattered at the tables. No one greeted him. The staff were polite, but distant.

Luo Yan was a necromantic alchemist — rare, but not exceptional. His talent was average. His research results were ordinary. Without the rare profession label on his identity card, even the guild’s benefits might have slipped away.

The Magic Guild was not a charity. You could eat. But if you wanted luxury, that was a dream.

Even with free food, Luo Yan still lived frugally. His monthly allowance barely covered the strange and rare materials needed to keep his experiments going. It was enough to survive — but far from enough to fund his ideals.

And if people knew that this quiet, disciplined necromantic alchemist secretly dreamed of becoming a rich, spoiled, carefree playboy, jaws would drop across the entire Davorma Empire.

Sadly, that dream had shattered 120 years ago, the day his father fell in the Discipline Office.

After breakfast, satisfied but still thoughtful, Luo Yan left the dining hall. The cabbage was a bit undercooked. The cream hadn’t soaked in. But the venison-pumpkin pie was excellent. Someone had added pepper, masking the gamy flavor and giving it bite.

Yes — he truly had the heart of a playboy. What mage noticed things like that?

“Today, I have to finish that load-bearing experiment!”

He muttered to himself as he walked.

For more than ten years, Luo Yan had worked on one thing: increasing the combat power of necromantic summons. His goal was simple — a support spell, like an aura, that could double the strength of all undead within range.

For necromancers used to fighting among mountains of corpses, that would change everything.

Skeletons. Zombies. Ghosts.

With stronger bodies, sharper claws, harder bones — they would no longer be cannon fodder. They could crush ordinary troops. Maybe entire armies.