Chapter 236: Wishful Thinking
But he was a Necromancer. And Necromancers were feared for different reasons. They were seen as dark, unnatural, and cursed.
People didn’t admire Necromancers; they feared them. They whispered about, crossing themselves when they walked past. It was a lonely existence if you looked purely at the fact that the person was a Necromancer, a life of isolation and mistrust.
Though with Darion, Percvale had just accepted he was a Necromancer, his knights and Garren even.
After that motivational speech, they had all seemed alright with it.
But thing is, it wasn’t as simple as that. Darion had shown Percvale how his Necromancer ability would be useful to them, implemented it too with the Bogart hunts, and wars and victories, and just making things go smoothly for Percvale in the most seemingly unnatural way.
He had shown them how "nice" a Necromancer could be to his people, even though he was the opposite for his enemies.
Darion had shown them how reviving the dead could make them strong in terms of manpower, in terms of battles.
And seeing the disgust of seeing former knight corpses walking and fighting, it was gone. They had seen the results. They had seen the victories. They had seen the prosperity that came from his dark power.
The revulsion had faded, replaced by acceptance and even gratitude.
But still, that didn’t mean that Darion wasn’t viewed as "evil" by his enemies, people who he had fought who knew he was a Necromancer.
To them, he was a monster, a Man of darkness who defied the natural order. They didn’t see the rebuilding, the feeding and the protecting.
They only saw the undead, the fire, the death.
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Now Darion thought about the other classes he could have had. Flying mages who could send magic balls from their hands, their powers versatile and awe-inspiring.
Or summoners who could call forth any weapon, both mythical and real. Swords of legend, bows of gods, shields that could block any attack. They would be the heroes of stories, the ones who saved kingdoms and won glory.
And he was just a Necromancer. A man who raised the dead.
But then, Darion thought of something else. Something that made him pause.
What if, somehow, he managed to kill a dragon? It was impossible, of course. Dragons were legendary creatures, nearly invincible.
They could destroy armies, level cities, and reduce kingdoms to ash. But what if he managed it? What if, through some miracle, he defeated a dragon and made it into an Undead Dragon?
Would the corpse breathe fire? Would it retain its magical abilities, or would they fade with its death?
Could it still fly, its wings propelled by the same dark energy that animated his other undead? He had never encountered a dragon, had never even heard of anyone encountering one. But the thought lingered in his mind, tantalizing and terrifying.
If he could raise a dragon, he would be unstoppable.
An Undead Dragon would be a force of nature, its corpse animated by dark magic, its scales impervious to harm. It would breathe fire, not the living fire of a living dragon, but something else. Something darker.
Undead fire! A flame that burned not just with heat, but with the cold touch of death itself. It would be a weapon of mass destruction, a symbol of his power and his mastery over death.
He imagined the Undead Dragon soaring over Percvale, its skeletal wings blotting out the sun.
The knights below would gaze up in awe, their fear turning to reverence. His enemies would tremble at the sight of it, their hope crumbling as they realized they faced an unstoppable force.
But it was just a wishful thought. Dragons were definitely present in this world, but they were almost extinct in a way, because they were very rare. Maybe only attainable by Summoners of the highest class.
Darion sighed and closed the history book. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting long shadows across the great hall. He sat in silence, his mind still turning.
Perhaps he was being too hard on himself.
He had built something from nothing, had turned a dying barony into a thriving settlement. He had won wars, made alliances, and earned the loyalty of his people.
He didn’t need dragons or flying spells to be powerful. He just needed to keep doing what he was doing.
He stood up and stretched, his joints popping. The day was still young. He decided to go check what Seren was up to.
He met Seren outside the castle discussing with the Archers.
They stood in a loose circle near the courtyard wall, their bows slung across their backs, their faces a mix of curiosity and concern. Seren was in the middle, her hands moving as she spoke, her voice carrying across the space.
Darion noticed them looking at her with faces of doubt.
Some of the archers had their arms crossed, their eyebrows raised.
Others were shaking their heads slowly, as if they couldn’t quite believe what they were hearing.
One of the younger archers was staring at Seren like she had just suggested they all jump off a cliff.
"When I hunted with the Baron in that part of the forest," Seren was saying, "it was really cool. We saw many weird, crazy wild animals. You wouldn’t believe the things that are out there. Creatures that look like they crawled out of nightmares. If you venture to that part, mainly for hunting birds, while we try not to die from the wild animals around us, our main focus is the wild birds. It would be a real challenge, a real test of your skills."
Darion could basically hear one of the men shout "Hell Nah!"( though the person didn’t actually say that because this was medieval times.)
Instead, the archer just shook his head vigorously, his face pale. Another one stepped forward, his voice carrying a note of disbelief. "That’s suicide, Seren. We’d be torn apart before we even saw a bird."