Lich for Hire

Chapter 100: The Most Wicked Existence in the Nine Kingdoms

Thanos was a god of immense power—and immense generosity. As long as you could endure his madness, he would grant you countless boons.

Viscount Letterman was clearly one of Thanos's most devout followers. What flowed through his body seemed more like raging lightning than blood.

The Twilight Wardens were elven elites, yet two spells from Letterman had already left two of them dead and three wounded. That was an impressive record by any standard.

Ambrose was secretly glad he had never tried to take this territory by force. Stormpriests truly shone on the battlefield; against them, cannon fodder was nothing more than a steady stream of offerings.

The elves sprawled across the tower floor proved stubborn. They soon struggled back to their feet and charged at Baron Letterman once more.

Ambrose simply stepped aside and watched as the viscount vented the fury he had bottled up for so long on these elves.

Letterman swung his iron hammer, wreathed in crackling lightning, as he clashed head-on with the three remaining elves.

Each blow of the massive hammer struck with the force of rolling thunder. The sizzling arcs of electricity became a battle hymn to Thanos's greatness. Though the elves were quicker and their short blades sparked wildly as they struck his body, they still failed to pierce his chainmail.

After only a few exchanges, one elf misstepped and was caught squarely by the hammer. Half his body collapsed; the lightning charred the rest black in an instant.

At last, the guards who had rushed over at the sound of battle arrived and surrounded the final two elves.

Lightning danced around Baron Letterman as he advanced step by step toward them. Just as he was about to crush them both, a brilliant arrow streaked into the tower.

A violent explosion followed, blasting a huge hole through the floor.

Caught off guard, Letterman nearly stumbled. By the time the smoke cleared, the two elves were gone.

The guards rushed to peer down through the hole. Only Ambrose looked up.

The two elves were clinging to the ceiling of the tower, wrist-mounted crossbows already raised and aimed at Baron Letterman.

"Truly insane," Ambrose thought. "Since when did elves become this fearless?"

Elves were never like this. After a failed assassination, they would usually retreat and regroup. Their suicidal determination—to die as long as they took Letterman with them—was new and dangerous.

Twang. The bolts flew. At such close range, given their marksmanship, they would have punched clean through Letterman's eyes.

Ambrose had no choice but to intervene. He summoned a Mage Hand and gently tugged at Letterman's arm.

The two bolts skimmed past Letterman's head and clattered to the floor. The guards immediately noticed the elves above and unleashed a chaotic volley of arrows and bolts in response.

Ambrose no longer paid them any attention. His focus shifted outside.

There was another elf, an exceptional archer, out there. The arrow that had pierced Letterman's shoulder earlier, and the perfectly timed explosive arrow just now, had clearly come from the same hand.

With such a sniper watching him, Letterman was in real danger.

Yet the stormpriest, already drunk on battle, felt no fear at all. Instead, his fury surged even higher as he unleashed bolt of lightning after lightning at the elves.

Madness was madness: once the fighting began, his ability to reason vanished entirely.

Ambrose could only keep watch outside the tower, searching for the elusive archer.

The archer, however, seemed to understand that Ambrose was the real linchpin. Even after the two elves were reduced to smoking corpses, he never fired another shot.

Without a target, Letterman had nothing on which to vent his rage. He miscast a spell and sent several nearby guards convulsing as electricity danced across their limbs.

He turned to look at Ambrose, lightning still churning within his eyes.

Ambrose said nothing. He offered no warning, no rebuke. Seated upon the Golden Throne, he simply watched Baron Letterman in silence.

The throne hovered in midair, and Ambrose looked down from above—an unmistakably discourteous posture. In his current state, Letterman was like a maddened beast, and the guards feared he might lash out even at Ambrose.

Ambrose was the Dwarf King's emissary. If he were harmed...

Yet under Ambrose's gaze, Letterman's rage subsided with startling speed. The lightning flashing across his body faded away.

Smiling, Ambrose said, "Baron Letterman, do take care of yourself. Your safety is paramount. Elven retaliation will likely come soon. Until the Dwarven King's reinforcements arrive, I suggest you avoid exposing yourself."

Letterman looked at Ambrose deeply, a hint of fear flickering in his eyes.

Moments earlier, intoxicated by lightning, he had been half-mad. In that state, everyone else had been reduced to tiny shadows in his vision. A single bolt of lightning would have reduced them to ash.

But when he looked at Ambrose, he saw a vast black void. Even lightning could not escape its pull. He had the unsettling feeling that, no matter how much lightning he hurled into it, the darkness would never be illuminated.

Fear took hold of him, a sensation he had not felt since childhood. It was so real that it forced his frenzied mind back into clarity.

Hoarsely, Baron Letterman said, "Please, Master Megaman, contact the Dwarven King as soon as possible."

Ambrose smiled. "Rest assured. The reinforcements will be sent to you as quickly as possible."

Letterman departed the tower with his guards. As long as he did not recklessly charge into open ground, nothing unexpected should happen.

Ambrose didn't linger in the territory either. With a writ from Letterman and the first installment of the mercenary fee, he left the Letterman lands quietly.

He hummed a cheerful tune along the way, his mood clearly excellent.

Not long thereafter, though, he could hear shouts and the clash of steel echoing from afar.

On the open plain, two forces were locked in battle.

Their numbers seemed evenly matched, yet the fight was completely one-sided.

The army bearing a banner of thorns was tearing apart and devouring the enemy formation—literally.

The thorn-bannered soldiers appeared to be under the effects of some spell. They felt almost no pain, ignored their wounds entirely, and bit savagely into their foes, tearing into flesh with their teeth. This madness shattered the morale of the opposing rabble, and they were swiftly annihilated.

Ambrose observed the fighting carefully. Above the heads of these soldiers flickered faint, serrated halos of light. It looked like an improved version of the Crown of Madness spell, which could control humanoids, strip them of reason and drive them to attack designated targets.

Beyond that, the spell seemed to grant pain immunity and vampiric regeneration. After gorging on enemy flesh, the thorn soldiers' wounds healed rapidly, leaving only superficial injuries.

There were nearly a hundred such soldiers. Whoever commanded this force was a capable spellcaster indeed.

Though Ambrose watched from afar, even a passerby like him drew the attention of this frenzied army. Once its original enemies were wiped out, its commander fixed her gaze on him.

As the thorn banner fluttered in the air, the maddened army surged toward Ambrose, seemingly intent on killing him as well.

Blood and gore covered the soldiers as they charged. Some ran on all fours like beasts, a truly horrifying sight.

Ambrose stood motionless, as if frozen in fear.

The female knight leading them burst into manic laughter, clearly savoring the thrill of overwhelming a helpless victim.

She wore heavy armor, black and crimson, bristling with sharp, thorn-like motifs. Instead of a lance, she wielded a long whip studded with barbs.

The grotesque armor, her crazed laughter, and the brutal army behind her were enough to chill anyone's blood.

Ambrose still did not move, as if he were resigned to death.

At the moment the blood-red thorned army was about to swallow him whole, a figure appeared in the distance and loosed an arrow, glowing blue, toward Ambrose at full speed.

The arrow carried a special anti-magic effect and would penetrate any magical barrier.

The twang of the bowstring was lost in the din of battle, and it came from a blind spot. The arrow should have pierced Ambrose's neck, drained his magic, and torn his head free by sheer momentum alone.

And the timing was perfect. Even in death, the troublesome mage would think he had been killed by the monsters before him.

The elven archer had followed Ambrose for a long time, waiting patiently for this perfect chance to kill the Dwarven King's emissary once and for all.

At least, that was what she thought when she released the arrow.

The instant it left her hand, Ambrose's head snapped around a full one hundred and eighty degrees and locked onto her.

"Found you."

Ambrose smiled as he fixed his gaze on the elven archer. The brilliant blue arrow struck the Golden Throne instead.

Its anti-magic effect was impressive. Like those twin daggers earlier, it bypassed his Mage Shield. But no magic was needed: simple physical defense was enough.

Against half a meter of solid gold, the arrow left only a shallow scratch before bouncing away.

Ambrose was growing fonder of this legendary boon by the moment. Gold truly was the most reassuring substance in the world.

A dazzling golden light flared. Ambrose reached out and clenched his hand in the air. The elven archer felt her body seized by an immense force as she was yanked violently toward Ambrose.

"Telekinesis?! Impossible, I'm too far away!"

Telekinesis was a high-tier transmutation spell, usually limited to a range of ten meters or so. Ambrose had dragged her from nearly forty meters away.

This was the power of a legendary boon, which could bend reality and rewrite natural law.

His pay-to-win ability massively amplified any spells he cast, and the results were absurd.

No matter how she struggled, the elven archer could not resist. She was dragged inexorably to Ambrose's side.

By then, the vast thorned army had already engulfed him.

The blood-soaked soldiers lunged, trying to tear into his flesh.

Ambrose merely snapped his fingers. A shockwave erupted before him, hurling the frenzied soldiers backward.

Thunder Wave was a simple, practical spell that normally blasted lighter objects a few meters away.

This time, Ambrose once again invoked the power of gold. The roaring thunder became a raging tempest, sweeping across the entire army like a hurricane and flinging them skyward as though landmines had detonated beneath them.

Moments ago, the thorned army had seemed unstoppable. But before Ambrose, they were no sturdier than paper.

Only the heavily armored female knight remained standing.

Ambrose did not spare the fallen a glance. Instead, he studied the elven archer in his grasp with keen interest.

"You're the leader of this unit of Twilight Wardens, aren't you? And a female elf, no less. Do you know a Twilight Warden named Cicero?"

The archer's face changed at once. She cried out, "So it was you! You're no emissary of the Dwarven King. You're that lying lich!"

"Lying lich?!" Ambrose snapped. "Where did that rumor come from? I conduct business with absolute integrity. I never cheat my partners."

Calling him evil or cruel was one thing, but a liar? That was unacceptable.

The elf roared, "We've already uncovered everything! You deceived and abducted the paladins of the Lyon Empire. You sabotaged the Alchemists' Council. You orchestrated the catastrophe that destroyed Alkhemia! Your crimes are as countless as the demons of hell. You are the most wicked existence in the Nine Kingdoms!

"Kill me! I will witness your downfall from the Elven God's realm!"

Ambrose fell silent for several seconds. Then he asked calmly, "Did Gustavo Flynn flee to the Court of the Silver Moon?"