Necromancer Dreams of Mechs Chapter 52: Chapter 58

Read chapter 52 of Necromancer Dreams of Mechs by Magic on NovelPedia.

Chapter 52: The Long Night Begins I stood a few yards away from the central fire, watching Hana stir a massive iron pot. The steam rose in a straight line toward the bloated, unmoving sun. It felt like standing in a museum display—static, artificial, and far too bright. "Do I really have to be 'Lord Allen'?" I asked, looking at Seraphine and Alric. "I’ve played the role before. Guild Leader, Raid Commander, even 'God-Emperor' once in a strategy sim. But those were just pixels. Hearing Silas say it... seeing the way they look at me when I walk by... it’s different. It’s a lot of pressure for a title I didn't even earn." Alric leaned against a wagon wheel, his lute cradled in his arms. "Titles are like anchors, Allen. In a world that spent months drifting in the 'stutter,' these people are drowning. They don't need a friend right now. They need a solid object to tie their ropes to. If you are just 'Allen,' you can fail. But a 'Lord' is a promise of order." "He is right," Seraphine added, her eyes tracking the movement of the camp with a clinical precision. "Power is not a garment you choose to wear; it is a space you either occupy or surrender to the wind. If you do not give them a Lord, they will find one in the darkness. Or worse, they will realize there is no one at the helm at all. That realization is what kills a people faster than any Mawspawn." I let out a long, heavy breath. I knew they were right. It was just harder to swallow when the "NPCs" had names and calloused hands. "Fine. I’ll keep the 'Lord' tag equipped. But if I start giving speeches about divine right, someone please hit me." I turned my gaze back to the camp, and for the first time, I really looked at them through the lens of a player. My eyes narrowed as I scanned the crowd, and my stomach did a slow, sick somersault. [Silas - Lv. 3 Weaver] [Hana - Lv. 5 Cook] [Joren - Lv. 2 Laborer] One after another, the numbers popped up. The highest level in the entire camp, excluding us, was a Level 8 blacksmith who looked like his back was about to give out. I felt a cold sweat prickle at the back of my neck. When the Langreths were here, their guards were Level 210. I’m Level 240. I had assumed the world scaled to the player, but this... this was a death sentence. They’re Level 5, I thought, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. A stiff breeze in the Hell Glade would wipe them out. If a single stray Mawspawn gets past my line, it won't be a fight. It’ll be a harvest. I looked at my hands. I was a human necromancer, a master of life and death, and I was standing in the middle of a glass house in a hurricane. I needed to rectify this. I needed to find a way to "power level" a hundred people without getting them killed, or find gear that would provide enough flat damage reduction to keep them from being one-shot. But for now, all I had was grain and salted rinds. Hana signaled that the food was ready. I walked over and, for the first time in two months, took a wooden bowl. Since I’d arrived in this world, I hadn't felt a single pang of hunger. My body was human, but it was being sustained by the system’s rules, and those rules didn't seem to care about calories. But as I sat down on a crate near the fire, I dipped a spoon into the thick, salted porridge. The first bite was a sensory jump-scare. The warmth, the grit of the grain, the sharp kick of the salt—it flooded my brain with a sudden, overwhelming reminder of being alive. I sat there, stunned for a second, just chewing. It felt like my nervous system was rebooting. "Is it... to your liking, my Lord?" Hana asked tentatively. "It's good, Hana," I said, and I meant it. The simple act of eating made the "Lord" title feel even heavier. If I could taste this, so could they. If I could feel pain, so could they. I watched them. The 110 survivors were sitting in circles, eating with a desperate, happy intensity. For the first time, there was laughter. A toddler was playing with a bit of loose thread from a wagon