Chapter 87: Guarding the Necro Market Like It’s Black Friday
"Yes, my lord," the Dullahan replied. "The underworld is mostly like this, though there are some areas we cannot venture into because of the demons. The church has managed to connect all regions of the underworld using gates."
"Gates?" Karl asked, the word sounding strangely mundane in this fantastical setting.
"Yes, my lord. Though this region is quite small, each region has its own gate that is connected to the main region, bypassing the normal means of using ancient demonic machines that are far older and more dangerous. These gates act as bridges that transport denizens from one place to another, allowing for trade and travel across the entire underworld."
Karl’s mind pieced together the vague explanation. "Ahhh... so, portals. And what exactly are these ’regions’? Are they floors or just areas of a specific floor?"
"They are what you call floors," the Dullahan said. "But we usually call them ’layers.’ Each region is its own floor, and the denizens of the underworld live on these floors. They are all connected through gates that lead to the main region, which is on the 80th floor."
Karl was stunned into silence. So each floor is a biosphere? Let’s say they are all large, and each of these floors contains the same biosphere with different biomes and artificial environments. What does this all mean? Are these undead the original citizens of the biosphere or not? The system tells of security staff, are they originally the malfunctioning security or the citizens? The implications are staggering. This isn’t a dungeon or an underworld; it’s a massive, self-contained, subterranean habitat. And the inhabitants may just be a failed corporate or military experiment, the ultimate test subjects left to form their own civilization.
Karl shook off the unsettling thought. Let’sadd that to the puzzle for later.
"Alright," Karl said aloud. "I may have questions for you later, but let’s go to that ’demonic’ structure, because that’s where we’re going next."
As Karl led the way with Rook, Leo, and Schalezusk following, the Dullahan and Libera looked at each other, their hands on the hilts of their swords, their unease palpable.
"Are you sure it’s a good idea to follow?" Libera asked, his voice a low, rattling whisper. "That structure... it feels wrong."
"Well, let’s hope it is," the Dullahan said, trying to reassure himself. "Our lord defeated two Duumviri-rank inquisitors easily. The power he wields... it’s like nothing I’ve ever felt."
"Ah... yeah, right, of course," Libera said, his fear still evident. "As soon as I felt that power of his, I felt something not out of this world. It wasn’t the raw force of a demon, or the holy light of a celestial being. It was cold and precise, a force of nature that felt like it was born from logic, not magic."
"Yeah, I felt it too," the Dullahan agreed, a chill running down his spine. "It’s terrifying, but also... compelling." They followed Karl deep into the forest toward the alien silver structure, their sense of dread competing with a growing, unsettling curiosity.
Korome, the leader of the Bloodtusk Orc raiding party, moved swiftly through the underbrush, a hulking figure of green muscle and jagged scars. His men followed behind, their heavy boots silent against the forest floor, their eyes glowing with a feral, red light. They were not scavenging; they were on a mission. As they approached a clearing, Korome held up a massive fist, and the war party came to a sudden halt.
Through the thick trees, they saw it: the Necro Market. Its exterior was not the ramshackle, bone-and-flesh construction they had expected, but a grand structure with manicured lawns and stone walls that looked more like a noble’s mansion than a place of commerce.
"Boss, is this our target?" one of the orcs grunted, his voice a low rumble. "These furries won’t know what hit ’em." The orc’s eyes were fixed on the perimeter, his lips curled back in a menacing sneer, a clear thirst for battle in his gaze.
Korome’s gaze remained calm and steady. "No," he said, his voice a deep, resonant growl. "We’re not here to hunt beastkin. We’re here to raid and capture undead skeletons."
A wave of disappointed murmurs swept through the group. Another orc, his stomach audibly rumbling, stepped forward. "What? How do we eat then? I’m hungry."
"We’ll raid a village on the way when we’re finished here," Korome promised, his tone unwavering.
"Why not raid the furries instead?" the first orc pressed, his eagerness for a fight clear. "They look weaker and easier to get to."
Korome’s eyes narrowed. "That is an order from Chief Minur. Do you intend to disobey him?" he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, intimidating tone.
The orcs’ expressions paled instantly, the heat of their battle lust replaced by a sudden chill of fear. "No, of course not!" they said, almost in unison. "We’ll take bones first, and furries later."
Korome’s expression softened slightly, a grim smile touching his lips. "Yes, this should be easy," he said. "Now, let’s go, and hurry before anyone catches us." With a guttural war cry, he turned and led his war party out of the forest, their heavy boots once again pounding the earth as they prepared to execute their chief’s command.
The two skeleton guards stood unmoving at the main gate of the Necro Market. Their empty eye sockets stared out into the darkness of the forest, their forms perfectly still.
Suddenly, a sound reached them—the rhythmic thumping of feet on the forest floor, growing louder by the second. One of the guards, the leader, turned his skull slightly toward his companion.
"Alert the executives and call the replacement squads," he said in a calm, hollow voice. "We are at SECSTAT 5. I repeat, SECSTAT 5."
The other guard nodded once and dashed off. The lead guard was left alone, standing guard at the gate. He was armed with a massive tower shield in one hand, a long spear in the other, and a xiphos at his hip. His stance was rigid and unwavering, a silent testament to a long-forgotten Roman discipline.
He was trained for this moment, to fend off the raiders for as long as possible, until the reinforcements arrived, even if it meant he would be fighting alone. To die in battle for his lord was the greatest honor one could achieve and today was his moment to shine. He smiled.
From the darkness of the trees, the orcs’ voices echoed. "Attack! Take anything you want!" they roared, their green bodies bursting into the clearing. Their eyes glowed a furious red, and the veins on their bulging muscles pulsed with the same light.
The skeleton guard held his ground. He braced his shield and leveled his spear, preparing his throw. With a powerful thrust born from repetitive endless training, he launched the spear with all his might. It whistled through the air, a blur of polished steel, aimed directly at Korome, who was leading the charge.
Korome’s instincts, honed by countless battles, allowed him to dodge it, but the orc behind him was not so lucky. The spear went clean through his stomach, piercing him all the way through before he fell to the ground.
Korome’s confident roar died in his throat. He stared at the spear in shock. How? We, the Bloodtusk, have been strengthened by demonic pearls. Our skins are hard, our bodies are fast. How could a skeleton have that much strength? They’re just bones. He had always believed skeletons were mindless, fragile fodder—easy prey for a brute force assault. This lone guard was challenging every assumption he had ever made. He looked at the unyielding skeleton guard, its shield and sword raised. The guard was a silent, menacing statue.
"Charge!" Korome roared, his sense of unease growing. "It’s just a single bone head!" His initial bravado was gone, replaced by a genuine, creeping dread.
The other orcs, their morale high, laughed as they charged. "HAH! Ravage everything!" another one yelled. "BURN!" The group ignored the lone guard, believing they could overwhelm him with sheer numbers.
Korome, however, felt a certain unease. Unlike the rest of the orcs, he was exposed to his chief’s deceptive tactics. For him, having strong muscles and powerful sword attacks, aren’t the symbol of being strong. For him, being strong was the last one to live. Thankfully, these numbnuts are willing to die first. Let’s see what that bone-head is capable of. He thought.
The orcs charged carelessly, cheering. "There’s treasure inside! Go! That’s just one bone head, there’s 21 of us!" one of them shouted.
"Shouldn’t we capture it?" another asked.
"Good question," Korome replied, "but there are still many inside. Ravage the entire place!" The orcs cheered again.
As the first orc, brimming with confidence, charged toward the guard, he was certain he could destroy the skeleton with a simple body shove. He stared at something shiny on the guard’s hip. What’s that shiny thing? The gleaming edge of the xiphos was the last thing he saw.
In the next instant, his vision blurred. He touched his face and felt a strange wetness. Why is there blood? He turned around to see his companions staring at him in stunned silence, their expressions frozen in shock. "What’s happening?" he asked, feeling suddenly dizzy. He collapsed to the ground, his head cleanly sliced just above the eyes. The guard had not moved from his stance, but the blade had flashed and returned to its sheath in a single, impossibly fast motion.
The skeleton guard stood menacingly over the stunned orcs. "You have violated the rules of this establishment," he said, his voice a cold, rattling echo. "Turn back now or prepare to die."
The remaining orcs, enraged by the death of their brother, let out a unified war cry. "RAAAGHHH!" They charged at the lone guard, their fury unleashed.