Necromancer Dreams of Mechs Chapter 51: Chapter 57

Read chapter 51 of Necromancer Dreams of Mechs by Magic on NovelPedia.

Chapter 51: The Last Feast in Daylight The sun was a stagnant, bloated eye in the sky, refusing to blink. Under the eternal, pale light of the "day," the shadows of the wagons were stretched into long, jagged spears that never moved. It was a surreal, exhausting kind of lighting—like a game engine that had crashed while the "Global Illumination" was set to maximum. As I stepped out of the tent, with Seraphine flanking me, the atmosphere of the camp hit me like a physical weight. One hundred and ten people—the "leftovers" of the Langreth caravan—were gathered around their small fires. They moved with a quiet, reverent caution, their eyes following me with an intensity that made my skin crawl. These were the people I’d "debugged." I still remembered how they looked when I first arrived: frozen in place, twitching, their souls caught in a terrifying animation loop. Now, they were wearing the grass-green tunics my minions had produced—gear with high durability and environmental resistance that felt more like a uniform than peasant rags. "They look at you as if you are the one holding the sky up, Allen," Alric whispered, as he fell in step with me, his fingers ghosting over his lute strings. "I'm not," I muttered, shoving my hands deep into my pockets and looking at the ground. "I’m just checking the perimeter." An old man stood up as I passed. He didn't bow, but he touched his own arm, feeling the solid, real fabric of his sleeve. "Lord Allen," he rasped, his voice trembling. "The world... it stays still when I close my eyes now. The stutter is gone. Because of you." I felt a lump form in my throat. My internal non-existent UI wanted to label this as 'NPC Loyalty: Maxed,' but the raw emotion in his eyes was too much. I looked away, my face heating up. "Yeah, well... It's high-density weave… um who are you?” "Silas, my Lord," the old man said, blinking as if the question surprised him. "I was... well, I suppose I am a weaver. Or I was, before the caravan started." He looked down at his hands, then back at me. "We were just stuck, you see? Like a cart wheel caught in the mud, spinning but not moving. Then you came, and the spinning stopped. We are all here. No one is missing. We are just... awake." "Right. Silas," I muttered, shifting my weight, desperate to escape the raw worship in his tone. "I didn't bring anyone back. I just... optimized the local processing. But, uh, you're welcome. The tunic is high-density weave. It’ll keep your core temp stable. Just stay hydrated." I stepped away, signaling for Alric and Seraphine to follow. As we moved deeper into the camp, passing families huddled under the relentless sun, the weight of it all finally cracked my composure. I turned to Seraphine, my voice dropping to a frantic hiss so the commoners wouldn't hear. "This is exactly what I was talking about. First the marriage proposal, now this?" I ran a hand through my hair. "In my world, this is a trope, Seraphine. A bad one. The 'Harem Protagonist' who collects alliances and love interests while the world ends. It’s messy. It’s unrealistic. I am sixteen years old! I am still stressing about Ciara, and now I have a Marquis planning our political dynasty?" Seraphine didn't look concerned. She looked amused. She covered her mouth with a gloved hand, her shoulders shaking with a soft, courtly laugh. "Oh, you poor, tragic creature," she said, her Victorian lilt thick with mirth. "You fret over the architecture of your heart while standing in the ruins of a kingdom. Allen, listen to me. In the Realm, a man of power does not limit his foundation to a single stone. If this 'Ciara' is as formidable as you say, then she is an asset. Why should I be jealous of strength? If she can hold a sword—or a spell—alongside us, then my House is all the more secure." She reached out, tapping my chest with a fan she must have pulled from her inventory. "You see 'tropes.' I see politics. And I must say, watching you panic over the prospect of being loved by two