Chapter 74: You Know Too Much

Digging up a lich's phylactery was a job for professionals.

When it came to dealing with the undead, Alkhemia was nowhere near the Lyon Empire's equal.

The paladins made several passes through the castle and soon noticed something unusual about one altar. The remains displayed atop it clearly hadn't been touched in a long while.

They tore open the base of the altar and, sure enough, uncovered an exquisitely crafted phylactery. The dense aura of necromancy around it made it look like the real thing.

But the captain of the paladins merely sneered. "Keep digging."

The newer recruits were confused, but they obeyed. Before long, they unearthed another phylactery beneath the base, one identical to the first.

The captain smirked. "Hmph. Such an old trick. Undead really have no imagination."

Just as he was about to call it in, a rookie paladin suddenly spoke up. "Captain, wait. The soil down here looks like it's been disturbed too."

The captain frowned. "Keep digging!"

Sure enough, another phylactery soon emerged.

"This lich knows what he's doing," the captain murmured. "Two layers of reverse psychology—no wonder so many of our comrades got played by him. Still, no matter how clever he is—"

"Captain... there seems to be... more..."

An awkward silence fell over the group. They began to dig without being ordered to. This time, what they found was even worse: there were two more phylacteries, one on each side of the first.

Staring at the five gleaming phylacteries before him, the paladin captain felt his scalp go numb.

He said, trembling, "A phylactery requires a massive number of souls as raw material. Even fakes have to be treated the same way... Just how many people has this lich killed?"

Ordinarily, a lich's phylactery required at least a thousand human souls, but there was no upper limit on how many it could contain.

Those souls shielded the phylactery and simultaneously served as the source of its power.

Slaves on the continent might be cheap, but five thousand of them? What kind of deranged undead was this?!

At that moment, a paladin asked hesitantly, "Captain... do you think all five of these might be fake?"

Cold sweat streamed down the captain's face. His voice turned hoarse.

"Sweep the entire castle with Detect Evil. Don't hold back. Check every inch."

With unease gnawing at their hearts, the paladins began their search. What they found was horrifying. Another phylactery was discovered in the ceiling. Then more—in bookshelves, under flower pots, inside preservative vats, behind paintings, inside coffins...

One after another, an appalling number of phylacteries were uncovered. There were 88 in total. At a thousand lives apiece, this lich had slaughtered nearly a hundred thousand people.

The sheer number drove many of the younger paladins to frantically recite scripture in order to suppress their terror and fury. The captain, meanwhile, leaned against a wall, shuddering. He had just found yet another phylactery beyond the corner.

This was insane. Just how many phylacteries had this lich made? How many more remained buried?

When James Watson saw the piles of phylacteries, even he, a devout believer of the Lord of Dawn, couldn't help but curse.

"They allowed a lich who butchered a hundred thousand people to live here? Alkhemia's rot goes far deeper than I imagined!"

The Lyon Empire hadn't killed that many people even in recent wars. This lich's crimes were monstrous beyond measure. He deserved to be struck down by divine punishment.

Still, James Watson was the Lyon Empire's High Inquisitor. He had seen countless atrocities before, and he quickly calmed down.

The numbers didn't add up. He vaguely recalled that this lich hadn't been reborn all that long ago. If he had slaughtered a hundred thousand people in such a short time, the region would have turned into a wasteland. Alkhemia would never have allowed that to happen.

Sensing something amiss, James Watson picked up a phylactery. Holy light flared in his palm, clashing with the dark magic clinging to it. With a soft crack, the phylactery splintered, allowing James Watson to open it easily.

As expected, it was empty.

"High spiritual density... It likely took more than a thousand souls to make this phylactery. But what's this? Spatial magic?"

James Watson could make out traces of a spatial array within, but it wasn't his specialty. He could only grasp a rough idea of its function.

Even knowing it was spatial magic, he couldn't understand what it was meant to do.

An empty phylactery with expanded internal capacity—but why? Did this lich have too much money to burn?

Though he was puzzled, James Watson didn't give up. He ordered the paladins to continue searching the area thoroughly. They had to find every phylactery that the lich had hidden even if they had to dig three feet deep.

Meanwhile, Ambrose was approaching Alkhemia.

As the airship entered the city, the ancient magical sigils etched into Alkhemia's walls began to glow. Alkhemia's magical automata mobilized all at once and began patrolling every corner of the city. The undead queen, purportedly present to sightsee, was respectfully escorted out.

Ambrose didn't get to see any of this take place. The moment he entered the city, he was taken straight to the central tower, where a massive stack of documents was placed before him.

Gustavo Flynn told him that these were the operating procedures for the Wish Engine, and he was to study them carefully and familiarize himself with everything. Once he finished, he could begin making a wish.

And though Ambrose knew this was a trap, he was certain of the veracity of the information.

After all, as a scholar renowned even in Alkhemia, he would hardly be fobbed off with pure nonsense. These documents had to be a blend of truth and falsehood that was at least convincing on the surface.

Gustavo Flynn likely hadn't realized that Ambrose had already examined the layout of Alkhemia's sewers and inferred the truth of the Wish Engine. These documents inevitably held clues that could bring Ambrose even closer to the truth.

How exactly the ritual operated, where its weaknesses lay, and what had gone so wrong as to doom Alkhemia—Ambrose could hardly wait to learn exactly how his own head had ended up separated from his body.

As soon as he opened the files, a smile spread across his face. Just as he'd suspected. The alchemists had slipped portions of the ritual into the documents, buried beneath layers of misleading falsehoods. But since Ambrose already knew about the deception, he wouldn't be fooled.

While Ambrose immersed himself in research, Gustavo Flynn grew increasingly impatient.

The paladins had promised that it would take at most two hours to find the phylactery. Nearly four hours had passed. They were being far too sloppy. Even if the phylactery wasn't critical to the plan and could be ignored, losing such powerful leverage over Ambrose left Gustavo Flynn uneasy.

In the end, the phylactery never arrived. Instead, Ambrose emerged from the archive, documents in hand.

Smiling, he said, "I've memorized everything. Can we make the wish now?"

Gustavo frowned. "That fast? Are you sure you remember it all? You can't afford to make a single mistake."

"Relax. You and I both understand what precision means in alchemy. I wouldn't gamble with my own life. Oh, right. I forgot. I'm a lich. As long as my phylactery's fine, I won't die anyway."

That last remark made Gustavo Flynn feel as if Ambrose was stomping on his feet. He nearly jumped on the spot. Still, the veteran kept his composure.

"Very well. If you're that eager, I'll show you Alkhemia's greatest masterpiece."

Gustavo led Ambrose to an enormous teleportation array: clearly a continental gate, one capable of spanning tens of thousands of kilometers.

But Ambrose knew better. This was just for show. The array would send him straight into the sewers.

So the instant the array activated, Ambrose cast Mist Step and leapt out at the last possible moment.

Gustavo Flynn vanished into the array, his face frozen in shock. He himself had been sent into the sewers.

The alchemists overseeing the array had no idea what had happened. Why had the lich suddenly jumped out?

Before they could react, Ambrose spoke. "Ah, terribly sorry. I suddenly needed the restroom."

The alchemists outside the array stared blankly. One frowned. "Undead don't have that function, do they?"

Before he could finish speaking, a massive fireball erupted from Ambrose's fingertips, turning the alchemist into dust. The raging flames shattered the enormous teleportation array, preventing Gustavo Flynn's return.

Only then did Ambrose blow on the tiny flame still dancing on his fingertip. To the dead alchemist, he said, "You know too much."