Unlike the brave Brand, the soldiers trembled in fear.
"My God. It's not just people, even animal corpses are coming out?"
Before the human corpses, the village dogs had already turned undead and were walking toward them.
This alone demonstrated how skilled the dark mage controlling these undead was.
"Eek! Th-there are too many!"
As the soldiers grew more terrified, Zebeck, realizing this couldn't continue, asked Azadin,
"I'd like to use the Mace of Judgment spell, but do you have a mace as a medium?"
"How about this?"
At Zebeck's request, Azadin pulled a mace from his saddle and examined it, rummaging through to find one that was rusty and worn.
"..."
"There's no need to use a good one as a magic medium, right?"
"We're in a hurry."
"Ah, seriously! I've been so busy lately that I neglected my gear!"
Azadin sorted through his maces and hammers, setting aside the ones in good condition and picking out those that were rusted, chipped, or heavily damaged, handing them to Zebeck.
'The fact that he's even bothering to sort through them at a time like this…'
Zebeck found Azadin's obsession with equipment condition absurd but took the mace nonetheless.
Despite being exasperated by Azadin's hoarding tendencies, Zebeck also picked out the most worn-out piece and cast his prayer spell.
"Pacify those who stray from the path, light of the king's virtue!"
— Mace of Judgment!
Zebeck hurled the mace, and as it traced an arc through the air, it plummeted to the ground, radiating a brilliant light. The luminous shockwave spread outward, scorching the undead it touched.
"Kyaaak!"
"Kieeek!"
The undead screamed in pain and collapsed. Then, from a distance, a surge of magic prowess rippled. The dark mage had begun chanting a spell.
The undead suddenly howled toward the sky like beasts. Then, moving at a speed incomparable to their previous sluggishness, they charged.
Seeing dozens of undead in a frenzied dash was utterly terrifying.
"Eek!?"
"Uwaah!"
The soldiers recoiled in horror.
"Hold your spears and maintain formation!"
Zebeck set his own spear beside him and took position with the soldiers. Though it was laughable to call this tiny group of spearmen a formation against the wave of undead crashing toward them, they braced themselves.
And then the wave struck.
"Focus!"
Finally snapping back to their senses, the soldiers and knights followed Zebeck's command. They thrust their spears at the undead lunging at them with terrifying force. As their attacks concentrated, one undead was skewered, writhing violently on the spear.
"Eek!"
"Agh! It won't come out!"
The spear was lodged in the undead and wouldn't come free. Meanwhile, more undead closed in.
"Save me!"
Some soldiers even tried to abandon their spears and flee.
But Zebeck pulled on his horse's reins, twisting his body. His steed lashed out with a powerful kick, sending an undead flying backward.
"Hup!"
Zebeck stabbed his spear into an undead lunging at his horse, then twisted it to dislodge the blade effortlessly before striking again, demonstrating the proper technique.
"Again!"
At his command, the soldiers and Brand readjusted their grips on their spears and reformed their lines. This time, as the undead rushed in again, they executed their thrusts properly, fending them off with much more ease than before.
"Hm, impressive."
Azadin marveled as he watched Zebeck cover the gaps in the soldiers' defense, allowing them to thrust and retrieve their spears without issue.
Each time Zebeck swung his spear, an undead fell. Clearly, this knight was no ordinary man. His leadership was equally remarkable—remaining composed even in the face of an undead assault that would paralyze most with fear.
'Well, I figured Sir Zebeck had skill since he's so stoic, but Sir Brand is surprising.'
The elderly Brand had served as a scribe, yet strangely, he was incredibly strong. Then again, he had wielded a hefty iron crowbar effortlessly while escaping from the bandit lair.
With such strength, he handled the long spear with ease—better than the soldiers, in fact. The soldiers, who struggled to retrieve their spears from the undead's bodies, paled in comparison.
"Well, now the servants need to do their part."
Azadin waited in anticipation for Ishmael and Midiam. Soon, whispers came from the nearby brush—Midiam was speaking to him through magic.
[Azadin! We found the mage. But…]
"But what?"
[You know that Naga woman?]
"...?"
Hearing this, Shati frowned.
"You heard that."
[Can you bring her over?]
"Alright, we'll go."
Azadin entrusted the rear to Zebeck and slipped away.
"Shati, shall we go?"
"Wait a moment. Are you saying the necromancer here is one of our Naga?"
Midiam hadn't explicitly said so, but from Shati's reaction, it was easy to deduce.
"Seems like it. What are the Nagas thinking? Count Salasma is dead, yet they still treat this as their territory?"
"I wouldn't know. I'm just from the commoner class."
Shati rolled her eyes as she spoke. She was probably calculating how to escape, but there was no way she could get away from Azadin.
"Stop thinking unnecessary things and follow me, Shati."
"Damn it. I even healed you."
"And I appreciate it."
Azadin kept a close eye on Shati as they moved.
***
According to the mythology of the Kurt Divine Clan, the god of the orcs, Kanak, bestowed his children, the orcs, with great gifts so they could dominate all other races and stand at the pinnacle.
A body that built muscle easily, immense physical strength, high intelligence, burning ambition, magic talent—Kanak had given them all these, along with a lifespan comparable to elves.
But these blessings accumulated into a major problem. As a result, most orcs struggled to live beyond the average human lifespan.
Kanak's greatest gift—muscles—was the issue. Their bodies developed muscle too easily, and as a result, most orcs suffered from constant hunger. Their bodies had terrible metabolic efficiency.
Moreover, despite their muscular physiques, their endurance was abysmal. Their excessive muscle mass drained their stamina. No matter how much their hearts pumped blood, the oxygen and nutrients were devoured by their muscles, leaving most orcs with chronic cardiopulmonary failure. The majority didn't survive past forty due to heart failure.
The orc necromancer here, Scott McGreen, sought to overcome this limitation. He sat in a wheelchair—one modified with preserved muscles attached to it. With this contraption, he could move using only his will, minimizing the exertion on his own body, which would otherwise build muscle even from the simplest activities.
However, he still had to work to survive, and even with the wheelchair, there was no avoiding physical strain.
"What the hell are you doing, orc?"
His employers, the Nagas, voiced their displeasure.
"Are you seriously wasting time against a mere human holy knight?"
"Just sitting in the rear and doing nothing."
Apparently, just sitting in his wheelchair wasn't enough to satisfy his employers.
'These idiotic racists. I'm putting in so much effort here, yet they just can't stand seeing me sitting still?'
To Scott, these Nagas were nothing more than arrogant supremacists. Among the followers of the Kurt Divine Clan and its pantheon, Nagas firmly believed themselves to be the greatest, the most superior. To them, orcs were merely useful servants, skilled in a few tricks, convenient to hire and discard.
"You eat enough to feed an army, so do something! Hurry up and summon the Book of the Divine King!"
"You lot kept nagging me to deal with the intruders! One of you tells me to eliminate the intruders, another tells me to summon the Book of the Divine King—so whose orders am I supposed to follow, huh?"
Scott had turned the local villagers into undead and even wiped out Count Lantaric's army to manifest a copy of the Book of the Divine King, hidden somewhere in this world.
That alone was a monumental feat, yet the Nagas, impatient as ever, kept issuing contradictory orders.
"You gluttonous orc, how dare you complain to your employers?"
"Enough, just focus on summoning the Book of the Divine King!"
"No, eliminating the intruders comes first! What if they're here to steal the Book of the Divine King?"
Would they at least make up their minds? Was summoning the Book of the Divine King the priority, or was eliminating the intruders?
Meanwhile, Scott reclined into his wheelchair as much as possible, careful not to strain his body and develop more muscle. He even controlled his breathing.
'Breathe too much, and my organs will start growing muscle. That'll shorten my lifespan.'
Calming his mind, Scott focused. His wheelchair, animated by necromantic magic, moved on its own.
"These damn snake-headed bastards, they keep giving orders—pick one already! Huh? This whole mess is happening because your command structure is garbage, isn't it?"
"Listen to this guy, talking back to his employers."
"You wanna skip your meals today?"
"…Fine, fine. I'll deal with the intruders first, alright?"
As Scott prioritized eliminating the intruders, the Naga who had insisted on it smirked in satisfaction. However, another Naga glared at him, clearly holding a grudge for having his order ignored.
'Damn it. This is pathetic. You Nagas really think you're all that, huh? Is this how you treat your hired help? Maybe I should've just sided with the Mezeri Apostles instead?'
Scott sighed and cast a spell to strengthen the undead before launching another wave of attacks.
"Alright, so is that it now? If we've dealt with the intruders, can we finally focus on manifesting the Book of the Divine King?"
The Nagas, convinced that the small number of intruders would soon be overwhelmed by the undead, kept pressing Scott. But then, his eyes widened.
"Wait! These guys are fighting too well!"
"What?"
"I mean… The intruders are handling the undead way too effectively."
"What nonsense is that? We threw an entire horde of undead at them, and they're still alive?"
"They seem to be holy knights of the King's Church. They're natural counters to the undead."
"Seriously? I thought holy knights these days were all weaklings."
"No, this one seems like the real deal! You guys might need to step in. Time to show off your great snake-headed skills, huh?"
Scott made the suggestion, but the Nagas just exchanged blank stares.
"A mere servant dares to order his employers around?"
"You eat so much that resupplying is a nightmare, so why don't you earn your meals for once, orc?"
"Wait, are you seriously expecting me to go out there and fight the intruders? Do you even understand why I'm in a wheelchair?"
"Well… the undead here are under your necromantic control, right?"
"If we step out there and you decide to betray us, you could just turn the undead against us. That would be a problem."
They were openly saying they didn't trust him, afraid he might stab them in the back. On top of that, they never missed an opportunity to complain about how much he ate.
'Okay, fine, I eat a lot, but this is too much, you bastards.'
Suppressing his frustration, Scott nodded. Even that slight movement made his neck muscles thicken.
"Damn it, fine. Just stop whining about my eating habits. I'll handle it, alright?"
Scott activated his wheelchair and moved forward.