In an open clearing, three hundred mortals—their bellies full and well-rested after several days of recuperation—chanted sacred verses in praise of the Lord of the Dawn.
When they reached the line, "willing to dedicate all to cleanse evil," faint Holy Light radiated from their bodies, coalescing into figures composed entirely of luminescence.
Some of these figures were exceptionally radiant and lifelike, while others shone with a dimmer glow.
Yet without exception, every one of them had grasped the power of the Holy Light—and it had taken them a mere three days.
However, upon manifesting the divine glow, the hair of many began turning white, and new wrinkles creased their faces.
Fanxing watched the scene unfold, quite satisfied.
This was the true purpose of these three hundred mortals: paying with their lifespans to summon celestial guards, transforming from frail, powerless commoners into mighty warriors in the blink of an eye.
Mortals could never become competent combatants in just a few days unless they paid a colossal price.
Fanxing had brought a piece of magical gear from the Ryan Empire known as the Crown of Faith. Capable of concentrating faith to open a celestial conduit and channel the Holy Light's power, it was an imitation of a true divine artifact, the Crown of Lathander.
These three hundred recruits had not let Fanxing down. After hearing the doctrines of the Lord of the Dawn, they had all embraced faith in the deity. Their devotion might not be purely pious, but the Lord of the Dawn never deceived; the response of the Holy Light was the finest proof.
Insufficient piety? Lack of training? None of it mattered. As long as they were willing, they could offer their lives as payment to summon the power of the Holy Light and unleash divine magic.
Summoning celestial guards was the course Fanxing had suggested to them.
Approximately ten years of lifespan allowed them to command these celestial guards in battle for twenty minutes.
Each celestial guard was a battle-hardened veteran forged purely of radiant energy. They were immune to most low-tier spells, lacked vulnerable vital points, and fought without fear of death. More importantly, they held an overwhelming advantage against nearly all undead.
Fanxing had concealed none of the side effects.
Activating this replica artifact required the victims to act entirely of their own free will. Using spells to brainwash them or resorting to coercion was utterly useless.
The Lord of the Dawn rejected human sacrifice, but He did not reject self-sacrifice.
These mortals understood the consequences all too well. Yet it was merely ten years of their lives. A person who was well-fed and warmly clothed might live to sixty, but as serfs or subjects beneath petty lords, their average life expectancy barely reached thirty.
What was wrong with trading years that hardly belonged to them anyway for a brighter future?
This was also why Fanxing had only taken youths and men in their prime. Anyone too elderly had no lifespan to offer and would die instantly during practice.
"Open your minds. Merge your consciousness with the will of the celestial guards, and you will master honed combat techniques in an instant," Fanxing instructed earnestly, demonstrating how to control the projections without wasting a single second. "Remember, every second is bought with your life. Any slacking or hesitation burns through your years and lowers your odds of survival. If you want to live—if you want to live as true human beings once more—then give me everything you have!"
Under Fanxing's command, the hundreds of hazy figures began executing various tactical maneuvers. In less than a minute, their sluggish movements grew fluid; they had completely mastered the technique of directing the celestial projections.
Finally, at Fanxing's command, the celestial guards fused together, swelling into a ten-meter-tall giant of light.
As the giant swung a massive greatsword of pure platinum brilliance, holy radiance surged forth like an enormous cannon blast, carving a hundred-meter fissure into the earth.
Though it held only enough power for a single strike, this giant of light should be more than enough to deal with the annoying lesser undead. Against such force, any number of skeletons or zombies would be nothing more than cannon fodder.
Had the lich been just a bit weaker, the giant of light could have cleaved the castle gates wide open, granting Fanxing and his men direct entry. The only pity was that the two adventurers sent to scout the castle had yet to return; by all appearances, they had likely met a grim end.
"Tomorrow at noon, we begin our assault on the undead's stronghold. Success or failure hangs on this single move. Fear not; when the time comes, I shall charge alongside you."
Fanxing dismissed everyone to rest. Once the mortals had all departed, a paladin stepped up to Fanxing's side and said, "Captain, that lad Geronimo has exceptional talent. Should we send him back separately?"
The implication was clear: spare Geronimo from the battle and send him back to Ryan for proper training. Before long, he could become a fully qualified paladin without needing to mutilate his own life to wield the Holy Light.
Fanxing knew his comrade's judgment was sound. Geronimo was indeed remarkably gifted. His control over the Holy Light surpassed ordinary men by far; he expended less vitality, and the celestial guard he manifested was noticeably stronger.
Even so, Fanxing shook his head. "No need. Every man we pull diminishes their collective chance of survival. I promised them an opportunity to fight for their future, and I cannot exempt Geronimo from this trial just because of his talent. All humanity should bathe equally in the Holy Light. However, if that boy truly survives, I will train him personally and make him one of the Knights of Condemnation."
Fanxing exhaled. "Enough. We need our rest as well. The first assault begins tomorrow at noon. I want to settle this lich in a single charge."
Leading his men back to the City of Alchemy, Fanxing sent the others to get some sleep while he made his way once more to the Slag Ember bar.
Tomorrow would mark his first hunt of a legendary undead. Although the young paladin had done everything within his power to guarantee victory, facing the impending clash still left him on edge.
He needed a drink. Gathering a bit more intelligence at the bar wouldn't hurt either—with any luck, he might pick up something useful.
Strolling down Southern Cross Street again, he noticed the thoroughfare was somewhat busier this evening. Most of the pedestrians, however, belonged to non-human races, and the glances they directed at the paladin were far from friendly.
Long accustomed to such reactions, Fanxing ignored the hostile stares and pushed through the tavern doors.
There were indeed more patrons tonight, scattering about until the tavern was half-full. Even so, the room remained quiet, as if everyone carried heavy burdens on their minds.
Fanxing thought nothing of it. During his few days in the City of Alchemy, he had seen far too many people weighed down by worry; given the depressed economy, poor spirits were hardly surprising.
Approaching the counter, Fanxing called out to the orc bartender, "Usual order. Two mugs of rum."
Having visited nearly every day, Fanxing had grown quite familiar with the bartender. Though he still disliked the man's race, Fanxing managed to speak without a trace of prejudice in his voice—a rare feat in itself.
The orc bartender poured a mug of rum as usual, then asked, "Alone again today? Why not bring some company to support the business? Heard you bought several hundred slaves."
Fanxing laughed. "Your lousy dive is too much of a ripoff. I can afford a drink for myself, but if three hundred men drank here, I'd have to pawn my armor."
The bartender wiped down bottle after bottle, setting them on the counter with calm, steady motions as he casually replied, "Then you should've at least brought your paladin comrades. Drinking alone every time... you're a bit too stingy for a leader."
With that, the orc refilled Fanxing's mug.
"They're busy today, but maybe we'll drop by for a proper drink tomorrow." Fanxing drained the rum once more, then asked, "Running some sort of discount tonight? Why are there so many people?"
The orc bartender let out a sigh. Instead of answering the question, he looked at Fanxing and said, "A leader really shouldn't be too stingy. Otherwise, when an unexpected accident happens, there won't be anyone around to save you."
Just as Fanxing felt something was amiss, a sudden wave of dizziness hit him like a hammer...
Dammit—those two drinks were poisoned!
Chapter 63