The outskirts of Northwind Keep.
Inside the Iron Dragonwing Palace.
Cassius sat upon the Iron Throne, with the three dukes—Trump, Duoluo, and Mezrolash—assembled below him.
At present, most of the empire's high officials conducted their duties in Isdalia; only an urgent summons from Cassius had prompted them to teleport over on short notice.
Cassius surveyed the hall before asking, "I trust you all understand the general situation. What are your thoughts on this lich?"
Mezrolash frowned slightly and spoke in a deep voice. "Your Majesty, if I may speak frankly, such ancient, wicked undead cannot be trusted."
He was, after all, a former paladin, and he understood all too well that liches were irredeemable monsters.
Duoluo countered, "He can serve as an asset in the empire's wars, perfectly compensating for our deficiency in necromancy."
Trump, however, remarked, "Your Majesty holds the lich's phylactery in your grasp. An old monster like him has lived for centuries; his memories hold forgotten lore and chilling secrets lost to the river of time. He is practically a treasure trove."
"We can squeeze him dry, drop by drop..."
The ogre mage licked his lips, his tone dripping with bottomless greed.
"Well said."
"However... let us first see what practical use he has to offer."
Cassius gave a slight nod.
At his command, a squad of tiefling soldiers marched in bearing a stone sarcophagus and struggled to pry open the heavy lid.
"This is... Count Hart."
Inside the stone coffin lay a tall, powerfully built half-dragon. A shocking wound scarred his chest, and his specially treated skin was deathly pale—he had clearly been dead for quite some time.
During the Magur Incident, Hart, the head of the Free Trade Caravan, had been besieged by allied forces, first frozen by magic and then pierced to death by a barrage of spears.
Yet Duke Leo had been astonished to find that this dragon-blooded count's body was so robust that even fire could not consume it.
Consequently, the allied soldiers had brought Hart's remains back to Stravburg, where the northern nobles hoped to uncover the secrets of the dragon bloodline from his body.
Unfortunately for them, before they could conduct any research, the army of the Kingdom of Cinders stormed Stravburg and retrieved the corpse.
Following the victory in the war, Hart was publicly hailed by imperial authorities as a "hero who sacrificed himself for the liberation of the Northlands," posthumously granted the honorary title of marquis, and his statue and remains were placed on display in the Imperial Memorial Hall.
Now, this dragon-blooded body had been brought here.
What Cassius intended was self-evident—Hart was a count he had personally ennobled, and letting him remain dead was simply a waste.
"Bring Orestes in."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
The lich entered the hall trembling with dread and prostrated himself before the red dragon. With his phylactery in another's hands, the lich's imposing aura had diminished considerably.
"Your Majesty—no, my exalted master—I have come at your bidding."
"Transform him."
"Yes, Master. But what sort of undead would you have me raise him into?"
"The highest grade, with his own independent consciousness."
"But..."
A troubled look crept across Orestes's gaunt, withered face.
Cassius lifted a claw slightly, and the Scepter of Myrkul's Bones descended from thin air before the lich.
"I lend this to you."
"I thank my master for his grace."
Orestes waved the bone scepter and pointed it toward Hart's corpse, necromantic energy surging within the staff's pitch-black magic stone.
"Vile undead forged from mortals driven by dark desires and monstrous vanity..."
"Wight, heed my call..."
Create Greater Undead.
When death silences a mortal's heart and snuffs out their breath of life, their spirit may return in an undead form, binding itself to the corpse to wage eternal war against the living.
Such is a wight.
They obey the commands of whatever dark power brought them into unlife, retaining their autonomy while swearing fealty to their new master.
Tireless and relentless, a wight pursues its purpose without distraction.
Off to the side, Trump spoke up coldly, "Lich, are you raising a servant for yourself? Open your eyes and remember who rules here!"
Orestes froze. Only then did he realize that centuries of habit had nearly led him into a catastrophic blunder.
He was not raising undead for himself!
He was doing it for His Imperial Majesty!
He hurriedly bowed his head toward Cassius. "Of course it is His Majesty Cassius. You are this wight's unquestioned master."
"Master, please bestow your will to complete this final step."
The red dragon's mighty will descended, completing the invocation.
Necromantic mist swirled around the half-dragon's form.
Negative energy, glowing like embers, spread from the heart through the entire corpse, penetrating flesh, garments, and armor, remaking the body into a vessel fit to harbor an undead spirit.
Hart felt as though he had been sinking into a dark abyss for an eternity. Images flashed through his mind: several spears stabbing into him, flames licking at his flesh—the sights he had beheld in life, the final memories before his death.
Then he seemed to hear a distant, grand summons.
"Hart—"
It was the voice of his Dragon Lord.
The voice of His Majesty, who had granted him a new life, altered his destiny, and bestowed noble blood upon him.
"His Majesty needs me..."
"I must return."
At last, he slowly opened his eyes, their dark orbs glinting.
"Am I... alive again?"
Hart rose slowly, gazing in bewilderment at his cold body, but comprehension soon dawned upon him—His Majesty had brought him back to the mortal realm and granted him life anew.
Wights possessed memories and were driven by their former sense of self, though whether a newborn wight was an undead monstrosity possessing false memories and utterly distinct from its former self, or a true continuation of the living being's existence, remained a matter of fierce debate.
Gradually adapting to his new undead existence, he climbed out of the sarcophagus and dropped to one knee before the red dragon.
"Your Majesty..."
The wight's voice was hoarse, deep, and devoid of emotional inflection.
Yet Cassius could sense a loyalty welling from the depths of his soul—partly the submission of a dragon-blooded servant, partly an undead's devotion to its summoner.
"Welcome back to the empire."
"Marquis Hart."
Cassius looked down upon the newborn wight and spoke with calm authority.
In the empire's future blueprint, the undead were another crucial piece of the puzzle. They were extraordinarily cheap cannon fodder, recyclable labor, and capable of working wonders in the Underdark.
Yet Hart's resurrection was merely the beginning.
Now, regarding how best to exploit this lich, Cassius harbored an even greedier, far bolder idea.
Chapter 402