You Know Too Much

Unearthing a lich's phylactery was work that called for professionals. When it came to dealing with the undead, the City of Alchemy could never compare to the Ryan Empire. The paladins swept through the castle and quickly discovered an altar with something amiss. The corpses resting upon it had clearly been left untouched for a very long time. At the squad leader's command, they dismantled the altar's base, and just as expected, uncovered an exquisitely crafted phylactery. Its dense necrotic aura made it look unmistakably genuine. Yet the squad leader sneered. "Keep digging down." The recruits were bewildered, but they obeyed. Sure enough, right beneath the foundation, they dug out another identical phylactery. The squad leader declared with smug satisfaction, "Hmph, an old trick. These undead truly lack creativity." Just as he was about to call for a wrap-up, a rookie paladin spoke up. "Captain, wait. The soil underneath looks like it was dug up before, too." The squad leader blinked. "Hmm? Dig again!" As predicted, they quickly unearthed a third phylactery. The squad leader sighed with begrudging admiration. "This lich actually has some tricks up his sleeve. Anticipating double counter-logic—no wonder so many of our comrades were outsmarted by him. Still, no matter how clever..." "Captain, it seems... there's more..." An awkward silence fell over the paladins. Without waiting for orders, they kept digging. This time, it was even more absurd—at the exact same depth, they dug out two more phylacteries, one to the left and one to the right. Staring at the five phylacteries gleaming before him, the squad leader felt his scalp tingle with dread. His voice trembled as he spoke. "A phylactery requires a massive quantity of souls as raw material. Even a decoy must have souls blended in... Just how many people did this lich murder?" Generally speaking, a lich's phylactery required a baseline of at least a thousand human souls, with no upper limit. Those souls were essential to protecting the lich's core and served as their source of power. While slaves were cheap across the continent, a full five thousand people... Just what kind of deranged monster was this undead?! Just then, another paladin asked with a shaking voice, "Captain, do you think... could all five of these phylacteries be fakes?" Cold sweat ran down the captain's neck, and his voice turned hoarse. "Quick! Detect Evil! Sweep the entire castle! Don't hold back on divine spells—every single corner must be thoroughly inspected!" Filled with anxiety, the paladins began scouring the premises. What they found was horrifying. Soon, someone discovered a phylactery in the castle ceiling, followed by more on bookshelves, under flowerpots, inside jars of embalming fluid, behind hanging paintings, inside coffins... An appalling number of phylacteries were hauled out one by one, eighty-eight in total. Eighty-eight phylacteries. At a rate of a thousand lives per vessel, that meant the lich had slaughtered nearly a hundred thousand people! Such a colossal number pushed many of the younger paladins to chant holy scripture frantically, desperate to suppress the dread and wrath churning in their hearts. The squad leader leaned against the wall, his hands and feet ice-cold—because he had just spotted yet another phylactery tucked away in a wall corner. Madness. Pure madness. Just how many phylacteries had this lich made, and how many remained undiscovered? *** When James Watson saw the piles of phylacteries, even this devout servant of the Lord of the Dawn could not stop a curse from slipping out. "To think they harbored a lich who slaughtered a hundred thousand souls... The corruption and depravity of the City of Alchemy run far deeper than I imagined!" The Ryan Empire hadn't killed that many in its recent foreign wars. This lich was monstrously wicked and deserved to be blasted to ash by divine thunder. Yet James Watson was, after all, the Supreme Arbiter of the empire. Having presided over countless gruesome, horrifying cases, he quickly composed himself. This number didn't make sense. Watson vaguely recalled that the lich hadn't turned all that long ago. If a hundred thousand people had been butchered in such a short window, the local population would have collapsed entirely, reducing the territory to a desolate wasteland. Nor would the City of Alchemy stand idly by while he butchered a hundred thousand people—did they have no interest in ruling their lands? Sensing something amiss, Watson picked up a phylactery. Holy radiance flared in his palm, clashing against the dark magic clinging to the vessel. With a soft crack, fissures webbed across the surface, and Watson pried it open with ease. Sure enough, it was empty. "The crafting material was indeed souls, and remarkably potent ones at that—likely far more than a thousand souls. Wait, this matrix inside... spatial magic?" Watson studied the shattered magical array within the phylactery. He could only make out traces of spatial magic; as he was no expert in the field, he could grasp only the rough outline. Even recognizing it as spatial magic, he had no idea what purpose it served. What was the point of engraving an expansion matrix inside an empty phylactery? Did he simply have too much money to burn? Though he could not wrap his head around it, Watson refused to give up. He ordered the paladins to continue scouring every inch of the grounds, determined to dig up every single phylactery, even if they had to turn the earth upside down. *** Meanwhile, the airship entered the airspace of the City of Alchemy. As Anbaixiu stepped into this majestic city of knowledge, the ancient magical runes etched into the city walls began to glow. At the same time, the Undead Queen, who was supposedly there on a diplomatic visit, was respectfully escorted out of the city, while every golem puppet within the walls was mobilized to patrol every street and alley. Anbaixiu saw none of this grand spectacle, for the moment he entered the city, he was ushered straight into the Council Tower, where a mountain of documents was placed before him. Gustavo Fring told him these were the operating procedures for the Wishing Machine, instructing him to study and master them thoroughly so they could proceed with the wish once he was ready. Though Anbaixiu knew full well this was a trap, he also knew there would be real information buried within the pile. As a scholar who had made a name for himself in the City of Alchemy, they wouldn't dare insult his intelligence with clumsy, outright fabrications. The documents had to blend truth with falsehood to appear authentic. Gustavo likely never imagined that Anbaixiu had already glimpsed the sewer's layout and deduced the truth behind the Wishing Machine. There were bound to be useful clues hidden in this material that could bring Anbaixiu closer to the truth. How the Wish ritual functioned, where its vulnerabilities lay, and which flaw had triggered the City of Alchemy's destruction—Anbaixiu could hardly wait to discover how his own head had ended up rolling on the floor in the future. Opening the files, Anbaixiu broke into a smile. Just as he thought, the alchemists had slipped in fragments of the genuine Wish ritual. Although heavily obscured by heaps of misleading information, it couldn't deceive Anbaixiu, who already knew the outcome in advance. While Anbaixiu busied himself with research, Gustavo Fring grew increasingly restless. They had promised to retrieve the phylactery within two hours at most, yet nearly four hours had passed. Those paladins were proving utterly unreliable. While the phylactery wasn't strictly necessary for the core plan and could be disregarded if push came to shove, lacking that leverage over Anbaixiu left Gustavo uneasy. In the end, Gustavo never saw the phylactery arrive. Anbaixiu emerged from the study first, documents in hand. Smiling at Gustavo, Anbaixiu asked, "I've memorized it all. Shall we make the wish now?" Gustavo frowned. "So soon? Are you certain you remember everything? This procedure allows no room for error." "Rest assured, both of us understand what precision means to alchemy. I wouldn't gamble with my own life either. Ah, but then again, I just remembered—I'm a lich. As long as my phylactery is safe, I won't die, will I?" Anbaixiu's parting remark felt like a deliberate stomp on Gustavo's toes, twisted hard for good measure, nearly making the man jump. Yet the seasoned actor maintained his outward composure and replied, "Very well. Since you can't wait, I'll take you to witness the greatest masterpiece of the City of Alchemy." Gustavo led Anbaixiu before a massive teleportation circle. It appeared to be a continental transit array, capable of spanning tens of thousands of kilometers. Yet Anbaixiu knew full well it was an illusion. The circle was configured to dump him directly into the sewers. Thus, the very moment the teleportation circle began to hum to life, Anbaixiu cast Misty Step, blinking out of the array at the final split second. Gustavo vanished into the circle with a look of stunned disbelief, sent into the sewers all by himself. The alchemists maintaining the circle failed to react in time. Why had the lich suddenly popped back out? Before they could make a move, Anbaixiu spoke casually. "Oh, my apologies. Nature called rather abruptly—I need to use the washroom." The alchemists outside the circle stared blankly. One of them foolishly blurted out, "Don't the undead lack that function?" The words had barely left his lips when a massive fireball erupted from Anbaixiu's fingertips, blasting the alchemist to pieces. The surging flames tore the colossal teleportation circle into shredded scrap, utterly severing any chance of Gustavo Fring returning through it. Anbaixiu blew out the tiny spark lingering on his fingertip and murmured to the dead alchemist, "You know too much."