Necromancer Of The Black Bible (31)

The night was bustling.

All through the forest came the sound of clinking cups and drunken humming.

The lyrics were unknown, but the tune and mood were all the same.

Now and then bursts of laughter joined in, harmonizing with the drunken chorus.

The Shadowfang bandits drank and feasted as though it were the last day of the world.

But not all of them did.

The vice-chief, Verdin.

His sharp eyes glared even more keenly at the central bonfire.

He was chewing over the events of the day and the words he’d just heard from the chief.

“Hm…”

The Blackleaf caravan’s guard captain had not been a man to underestimate.

His stance, aura, and swordsmanship surpassed most swordsmen Verdin had ever faced.

That was why Verdin had fought him more seriously than usual.

And though he felled him in a single stroke, the chief had not kept his word.

The excuse? That the opponent had been too weak.

‘Did it really look that easy?’

Verdin looked down at his blade.

A broad-bladed scimitar.

But not ordinary—the blade was marbled with black streaks.

It was the work of Kellindra, the East Continent’s greatest blacksmith.

Though unenchanted, its edge remained razor-sharp even after two years of use.

Such unreal durability was Kellindra’s hallmark.

A peerless sword that could shear through most blades, paired with Swordmaster-level skill.

With both, he had cut down today’s foe in an instant.

‘And yet… what of it? I’m still chained to this place.’

Verdin wanted nothing more than to end this wretched bandit life.

Plunder and slaughter were far from his desires.

What he wanted was to leave this place and find someone.

‘Lillian.’

Lillian, princess of Altera at the southern tip of the continent. And Verdin had been her sworn knight.

Verdin Lucas van Theodore of the Blue Wave Knights.

That was his full title.

Two years ago, on royal command, he escorted the princess toward the Empire—only to be surrounded and captured by the Shadowpeak bandits.

He had wanted to fight, but Princess Lillian had ordered surrender.

The mage with them had fallen to an arrow, leaving them little chance.

‘I should have fought to break free then…’

He might have cut a path alone—but not with her life secure.

So he obeyed her command to yield—and regretted it ever since.

She thought to ransom herself with their wealth, but they seized all, ravished her, then sold her as a slave.

Verdin, locked in an iron cage, had watched it all.

They spared him only because of today’s chief, Volg.

Then-chief Michael wanted him dead at once, but Volg urged to keep and coax him.

Later, Volg stoked Verdin’s desires and had him kill Michael.

Join me, and you can reclaim the princess. I know where she was sold to.

Help me first. Then I’ll give you what you want.

‘Is this really right?’

Verdin could not decide.

Volg was undeniably a benefactor—saving his life, giving him a chance at vengeance.

But earlier, Volg had treated him like nothing more than a hunting dog.

That guy was too easy. Is that all I’ve given you?

How much further would Volg demand?

Today was only the first raid—what if even after the second or third he wasn’t satisfied?

What if he invoked saving Verdin’s life to force obedience?

‘Then I mustn’t hesitate to leave.’

Thinking thus, he lifted the cup he’d set down.

It held strong liquor. Though fine whiskey had been taken today, he drank the harsh rum he still had.

Somehow, such luxuries felt forbidden to him.

‘I must find the Princess.’

Though now among bandits, he was still a knight sworn before king and god.

He could not forsake that oath.

Verdin drank deeply once more.

The burning in his throat sank into his belly.

It hurt at first, but after a breath, warmth rose.

Then two underlings approached.

Faces vaguely familiar, but unplaced.

They smiled faintly, sat, and one spoke.

“Alone here? The others are lively over there.”

“What is it?”

He asked sternly, but they replied lightly.

“You looked lonely. Shall we keep you company?”

“Company? You’ve got some nerve.”

“Come now, no need to be harsh. We’re just bored too—wanted to hear the deputy chief’s feats.”

“Chief? You mean me?”

Verdin scoffed, but they nodded.

Their eyes and smiles showed they meant it deliberately.

Verdin stiffened his face and said,

“Watch your tongue. Ears are everywhere.”

“So what if they hear? Here, the strongest is chief. And you’re the strongest.”

Verdin gave no answer.

Instead, he laughed inside.

‘Even these whelps see it…’

Yet Volg does not.

Perhaps it wasn’t that he couldn’t.

‘Perhaps he just ignores it…’

To use Verdin longer.

The realization soured him.

He lifted his cup again—it was empty.

One poured him more.

Glug, glug, glug…

The liquid that filled his cup was dark red wine, rich in fragrance.

The scent alone marked it as top-tier. Such things weren’t handed out lightly.

Volg would’ve locked it straight in his own stores.

Verdin looked at the pourer’s face.

“How did you get this…?”

He grinned.

“For the chief. But don’t tell anyone.”

“You…”

Verdin chuckled and drank.

He sipped.

Sweet aroma filled his mouth.

Strong at first, but rolling on the tongue blended tartness and sweetness into harmony.

A sweet aftertaste lingered as it slid down his throat.

Verdin remembered the taste.

“Crimson Raven.”

At his words, the man grinned and handed over the bottle.

At a glance, Verdin knew.

The Crimson Raven crest was upon it.

This wine was for only the highest nobles; a vintage of ten years could fetch hundreds of gold.

Considering a peasant lived on twenty silver a year, its worth was immense.

For a moment, Verdin felt grateful they’d smuggled such treasure for him.

He asked, eyes softened,

“You. Your name?”

“What does it matter? Call me whatever you like.”

Odd perhaps, but not unusual here, where chiefs named their men at will.

Verdin smiled faintly.

“From today, your name is Raven.”

“Thank you.”

“And you—Crimson.”

“…Yes.”

Together, Crimson Raven. A fine name, he thought, and sipped again.

Accustomed now, it lacked the earlier intensity—just a smooth, sweet finish.

Weaker than rum, yet each sip intoxicated far quicker.

But that was fine.

Tonight.

They had robbed Blackleaf’s convoy and seized Church priests—but what of it?

Kill them all, erase all trace—none would ever know.

As he drifted in thought, a voice came.

“Chief, how did you come to be here?”

It was Raven’s voice.

Drunk now, Verdin told him everything.

That he was first knight of Altera’s Blue Wave.

That he’d been captured while guarding the princess, spared only by Volg.

And that with Volg’s help he slew Michael and became vice-chief.

Raven nodded slowly and said,

“A tragic tale indeed—the princess sold, and you serving under that pig for a reason.”

“…Something like that.”

“But don’t you wonder?”

Verdin raised his head.

Raven’s face shifted as he continued.

“That Volg may have lied.”

“…What?”

“She might not have been sold at all—just killed here. Volg may be using lies to control you.”

“……”

Verdin could not deny it.

He had thought the same himself not long ago.

He pondered it in silence.

‘Volg could easily do such a thing.

‘Volg always lies.

‘When has he ever spoken true?’

In two years, the only truth Volg spoke was making him vice-chief if he became chief.

Then Raven’s sly voice slid in.

“Ask him yourself. He’s weaker than you anyway.”

His voice was sweeter than the wine.

Drunk on both, Verdin blinked.

“What if he has lied?”

“Then kill him.”

“If I do, the others won’t leave me be.”

Raven only smiled.

And whispered, sweeter still:

“No one here is stronger than you.”

At those words, Verdin set down his cup, took up his scimitar, and rose.

He headed straight for Volg’s tent.