Necromancer Dreams of Mechs Chapter 49: Chapter 55

Read chapter 49 of Necromancer Dreams of Mechs by Magic on NovelPedia.

Chapter 49: The Cost of Doing Business The walk to Seraphine’s tent felt like a march to the gallows, even with Alric’s colorful presence beside me. "I say, Allen," Alric said, his fingers ghosting over his lute strings. "You keep mentioning these... 'achievements.' You speak of them as if they are physical trophies or divine mandates. Pray, illuminate me—what manner of magic is an 'achievement' in your world? Is it a title bestowed by a king?" I stopped, kicking a loose stone across the dry dirt. "It’s not magic, Alric. It’s... it’s a record. It’s hard to explain, but in video games I played, everything you do is tracked. If you climb the highest mountain, a notification pops up. If you spend ten thousand hours crafting, the world acknowledges it. It’s a way of proving you were there. That you did the work." I looked at my hands, the white leather of my gauntlets gleaming. "I spent my whole life chasing them. 'Grand Seeker of Accolades' as you said, isn't just a title. It means I’m the guy who looks for the hardest, dumbest, most hidden things just to say I finished them. It’s... lonely. You spend so much time looking for the 'hidden' stuff that you forget how to talk to people standing right in front of you." Alric watched me, his expression softening. "A record of the soul's tenacity. Perhaps that is why you look at us and see 'quests' where we see lives. It is a heavy burden, to be a man who must always be 'finishing' things." I didn't have an answer for that. I just turned toward the center of the camp, but the sight there stopped me cold. Chaos. But not the Mawspawn kind. Lord Byron Langreth was shouting orders, his men heaving heavy crates into the back of three reinforced carriages. They were taking the grain, the salted meats, and the heavy iron ingots I’d planned to use for repairs. "You're leaving," I said, my voice flat. Byron turned, his face a mask of aristocratic loathing. "We are. I will not sit in this cage of wagons and wait for your 'monstrosities' to draw the abyss down upon my head. We have steel, we have horses, and we have enough food to reach the southern outposts. You and the lady can stay here with your bone-puppets and your peasants." "You're taking sixty percent of the food for less than a quarter of the people," I said, my heart starting to thump. This was the social conflict I hated. My instinct was to hide, but the logic—the cold, hard gamer math—was screaming at me. "Byron, the Mawspawn are days away. If you leave the circle, you’re just a delivery service for their next meal. You're killing these people." "Not if we go alone. It seems this world wishes for the worthy to be spared," Byron spat with contempt, but then his eyes blazed. “It seems that killing my son has broken me from fate, but even if you do survive, I will not let sleeping dogs lie.” The words hit like a physical blow. My breath hitched. I wanted to scream, to blast his carriage into splinters, but I just stood there, paralyzed by that familiar, suffocating awkwardness. I watched them go. I watched the dust rise as the Langreths abandoned a hundred commoners to starve just so they could feel 'safe.' "Let them go, Allen," a voice said from behind me. I spun around. Seraphine was standing at the entrance of her tent. She looked smaller without her guards, but her eyes were like flint. "They are cowards. And in the grass sea, cowardice is a terminal illness. Come. The tea is getting cold." I stood to watch the people leaving, but then soon followed her inside. The tent smelled of jasmine and old parchment. I sat on a crate, my knees bouncing nervously. I felt like I was back in high school, sitting across from Ciara, wondering why a girl like that would even look at a guy like me. "So," I started, the word coming out as a croak. I cleared my throat, trying to find that 'Raid Leader' voice to hide the fact that my hands were shaking. "The marriage thing. Let’s talk about it. Honestly." Seraphine poured the tea, her movements precise.