The Necro-Industrial Revolution

Five days had passed since Silas Thorne walked out of the Frost-Grip valley.

Far to the south, in the center of the Holy Capital of the continent, the weather was entirely different. There was no biting frost or endless snow. Warm sunlight streamed through the massive, colorful stained-glass windows of the Grand Cathedral, casting long, vibrant patterns of light across the polished white marble floors.

Deep inside the Cathedral, in the most private sanctuary, Silas walked with quiet, measured steps.

At the far end of the vast room, an older man was kneeling in silent prayer. He wore crimson robes that draped across the floor. In front of him stood four towering stone statues, their faces carved to look down with severe, unforgiving expressions.

This was High Cardinal Xander.

Silas stopped a respectful distance away and waited. For several long minutes, the only sound in the massive room was the soft, rhythmic chanting of the choirs echoing from a distant hall.

Finally, High Cardinal Xander finished his prayer. He slowly pushed himself up from the floor, smoothed his crimson robes, and turned around. His face was weathered and stern, framed by a neatly trimmed gray beard.

“Inquisitor Thorne,” Xander said, his voice echoing smoothly in the large space. “You have returned from the northern mountains. Why have you come here?”

Silas dropped to one knee and bowed his head deeply.

“Your Eminence,” Silas said, keeping his voice steady, though a knot of anxiety twisted in his stomach. “I come to deliver a report of the highest urgency. But first… I must make a confession regarding my duties.”

Xander clasped his hands behind his back. His eyes narrowed slightly. “A confession. Speak it.”

“Two years ago, I traveled to the northern border,” Silas began, choosing his words very carefully. “I had a bitter argument with the late Lord Frost-Grip. We exchanged harsh words in his own hall. Because of that lingering dispute… when the orders were issued this past autumn, I deliberately ignored them. I did not go to aid the Frost-Grip valley during the winter as I was instructed.”

The temperature in the sunlit room seemed to drop. High Cardinal Xander’s expression instantly twisted into a look of deep, ugly anger.

“You defied a direct mandate from this office?” Xander demanded, his voice dropping into a dangerous, heavy tone. “You abandoned an entire fief to the winter simply because a minor lord offended your pride?”

“I know it was a severe failure of duty, Your Eminence,” Silas rushed to say, keeping his head bowed. “But I have just returned from the valley now. And I have found something that completely changes the situation. I found something that justifies my actions.”

Xander stared down at the kneeling Gold Core mage. The anger did not leave his face, but a flicker of cold curiosity entered his eyes. “You had better choose your next words flawlessly, Silas. What did you find?”

Silas lifted his head, a proud, triumphant smile forming on his lips.

“I found the deepest heresy, Your Eminence,” Silas reported eagerly. “The sickly boy-lord, Jack Frost-Grip, survived the winter. He has built a massive timber fortress and opened his old coal mine. When I arrived, he sat across from me and played the part of an offended, magicless cripple to absolute perfection.”

Silas let out a short, mocking laugh. “He even tried to suppress his mana. But he is only an Iron Core, while I am a Gold Core. I saw right through it instantly. I could feel the mana buried in his chest. And he paraded a mercenary in front of me to explain how they survived the beasts.”

“A mercenary,” Xander repeated flatly.

“His name was Elias,” Silas nodded, his eyes shining with the thrill of his discovery. “From my very first conversation with the man, I knew something was wrong. His skin was too pale, and his movements were too stiff. I looked closely, and I understood. He was a flawless, flesh-bound undead. Given the dark history of the Frost-Grip family, it all made sense. The boy is a necromancer, Your Eminence.”

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Silas waited for the High Cardinal’s reaction. He expected Xander to shout in righteous fury. He expected immediate praise for uncovering such a dark secret, and the authorization to take an army of paladins north to burn the valley to ash.

Instead, High Cardinal Xander simply stared at him. The older man’s face was completely blank.

“So what?” Xander asked.

Silas blinked. The triumphant smile slid right off his face. He stared at the High Cardinal, completely confused by the response.

“Your Eminence?” Silas asked, his voice faltering. “I… I do not understand. He is practicing the Grey Arts. He is raising the dead. Shouldn’t we kill him? Isn’t it the ultimate heresy against the Church?”

Xander let out a slow, heavy sigh. He looked at Silas not as a heroic Inquisitor, but as a deeply disappointing fool.

“Kill him?” Xander repeated, his voice dripping with condescension. “If our entire plan was to kill all the necromancers, do you honestly believe we would have let even a single member of the Frost-Grip bloodline survive centuries ago? The core affinity one awakens is almost entirely unpredictable. Are we supposed to test every single peasant and noble across the world, checking everyone just to kill a handful of them?”

Silas felt the blood drain from his face. His mind struggled to process the words. “But the history books… the holy texts say we purged them.”

“The texts say what the masses need to hear,” Xander stated coldly, stepping closer to Silas. “You are a Gold Core Inquisitor, Silas. You should know by now that the truth of this world is far more complicated than a simple book of prayers. You may not know this, but on this continent alone, there are currently a total of sixty-eight cultivated necromancers.”

Silas’s eyes widened in absolute shock. The Holy Church, the institution that publicly burned necromancers at the stake, was secretly allowing them to exist.

“And now that the Frost-Grip boy has finally awakened his core,” Xander continued, a dark, calculating satisfaction settling over his features, “that makes the number sixty-nine. That is even better.”

“Sixty-nine necromancers?” Silas breathed, his voice trembling slightly. “What are you saying? Why would the Church want them alive?”

Xander ignored the question entirely. His expression hardened into a mask of unforgiving authority.

“I will ask you a question, Silas,” Xander said softly. “What were you explicitly told to do by Supreme Pontiff Valerius before the winter began?”

Silas swallowed hard. The mention of the Supreme Pontiff sent a shiver down his spine. Valerius was the true head of the entire Holy Church, a man of terrifying power.

“Since Supreme Pontiff Valerius is currently in Atera,” Xander reminded him, his voice echoing loudly off the stone statues. “Attending to private business on the continent where humans, variants, and other creatures mix… I am currently handling his position here on this continent. So, I will ask you again. What were his direct orders to you?”

“He… he ordered me to aid the Frost-Grip fief with everything,” Silas stammered, his proud posture completely collapsing. “He told me to ensure they survived the winters.”

“And what did you do?” Xander asked angrily, taking a final step forward until he was towering directly over the kneeling mage.

“I…” Silas couldn’t finish the sentence. He realized the magnitude of his mistake. He hadn’t just ignored a simple charity mission. He had risked the life of the Church’s sixty-ninth asset out of petty spite.

Xander looked down at the Gold Core mage. He did not raise a hand. He did not chant a spell. He simply let the crushing, suffocating weight of his magical pressure slam directly down onto Silas.

Silas let out a horrific, agonizing scream.

The pain was absolute and instantaneous. It felt as though an invisible mountain had been dropped onto his shoulders, driving him flat against the marble floor. His bones groaned under the pressure, and his golden core violently seized in his chest, sending waves of pure agony through his nervous system.

He writhed on the floor, gasping for air that wouldn’t come, his pristine white robes soaking up the cold sweat pouring from his skin.

After what felt like an eternity, the crushing pressure slowly lifted.

Silas lay flat on the marble, trembling violently, unable to gather the strength to push himself back up to his knees. He coughed weakly, his throat raw from screaming.

High Cardinal Xander looked down at the broken, shivering Inquisitor with cold, merciless eyes.

“Now that the boy has awakened as a necromancer,” Xander declared, his voice carrying the weight of absolute law, “your new job will be to go back to him. But you will not stay there to hold his hand. If you hover over him like a live-in servant, he will never develop his powers properly. You will tell him that if he ever needs anything—any kind of help at all—he is to contact you, and you will come to his aid as soon as possible. You will continue to pretend that you do not know he is a necromancer. Let him believe his little deception worked.”

Silas forced his eyes open, staring at the hem of the High Cardinal’s crimson robes. “A… aid him?”

“And by the time the autumn arrives, after the summer has passed,” Xander commanded, “you have to convince him to come to the continent of Atera by any means necessary.”