The putrid bowels of Etron’s sewers flashed with conjured fire and ice. As I roamed ahead of Kinro and Miriam, a slow trickle of armed cultists approached one at a time. Each time, my wand or staff would shoot up, and the assailant would crash to the ground in a pool of blood. I didn’t even bother slowing my stride once I realized that these were the chaff of the Lich Cult.

  One man in a deer mask, the sixth man to challenge me in the previous minute, charged toward me with a bearded axe raised over his head. Almost automatically, I raised the staff of my ancestor and launched a spear of ice through his chest. As the cultist fell back, I saw that the rear half of the [Ice Spear] was covered in thick, gorey blood.

  The man fell into the murky ankle-deep water below, yet he didn’t die immediately. Even with his heart missing, he was still able to slowly crawl another meter in my direction. Quietly, at the edge of my hearing, I heard the man say, “I’ll… kill… him.”

  This is too much.

  Such unwavering loyalty and mindless zeal was unnatural. Sure, zealots existed, but they were rare and usually made it higher into a cult’s hierarchy. Low-level cultists weren’t supposed to behave like this; they were supposed to act like the cultist I had run into in front of the Church of Nyx. When they knew they were outmatched, self-preservation was supposed to take over.

  Don’t be a child, Johan.

  It’s not lack of will, Thale. These cultists aren’t acting like people. Something else, some dark magic, is at work here.

  I knelt down in the fetid water, polluted with blood and feces, and lifted the dead man’s head out of the water. Without looking up, I said, “Take point, Kinro.”

  “Yes, Boss,” Kinro said, stepping forward and intercepting the next cultist. His blade scythed forward, and a screaming woman in a skull mask was violently bisected.

  The man in my arms finally stopped moving. By the rules of this world, his soul would leave in a few seconds, but he wouldn’t yet be brain dead. I wrenched the skull mask from his face and looked underneath. No further examination was necessary for me to determine the cause of his strange behavior.

  Blood leaked from the dead man’s black eyes. Stress had caused the capillaries in his eyes to burst and dye the eyeball completely. There were only two things in this world that could do such a thing: Necromancy and Mind Magic.

  Look familiar? This man’s mind was flayed.

  Yes, it does. If I could see his brain, I could determine what the user wanted to instill in his victim.

  We don’t have the time for brain surgery.

  I looked around at the dozen cultists that laid dead on the ground. Most likely, they had all been people minutes before, but some [Mage] had decided that they would become his slaves.

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  Subconsciously, I had left all of my victims’ arms and legs intact. I didn’t need Thale to tell me why I had done that. If they still had their limbs, they would serve as excellent zombies.

  There was no time for moral prevarication. I knew what I was going to do, and the potential benefits far outweighed the risks. If I took any half-measures, there was a higher chance that Miriam would die.

  I pressed my hand against the dead man and whispered, “[Create Zombie].”

  The corpse jerked into motion, rising to its feet with the hysterical vigor of undeath. At a much slower rate, I rose to my feet as well.

  “Protect the three of us,” I said, pointing to Kinro, Miriam, and myself. Immediately, the zombie moved toward Kinro and began supporting him in his fight.

  Trying my hardest not to look at Miriam, I leaned down and created another zombie. With my stats and level, I could maintain eight zombies at once. It cost five mana to summon each zombie, so it would take quite a while before I ran out of mana.

  “Hey, Boss? You don’t mind if I accidentally kill some of your zombies, right?” Kinro said as he engaged the cultists shoulder-to-shoulder with my necromantic minions.

  “Try not to make a habit of it,” I said, leaning against my staff.

  In the back of my mind, I was coming to grips with the fact that I was officially a necromancer. That was the first time I had ever created a zombie. Within the logic of Ferrum, necromancy was an evil action in a world of objective and measurable morality. Such actions would, inevitably, start to push my alignment toward the [Evil] end of the spectrum.

  “I’m sure my actions disgust you, Miriam,” I said without looking at her. “If you want to leave, I won’t hold it against you.”

  There was a long moment of silence before Miriam said, “We’re here to save lives. I can’t imagine that Nyx is so petty as to care about the methods used by the defenders of the innocent. Plus,” I could hear the smile in her voice, “a wise man once said, ‘Tools are neither moral nor immoral. Morality is determined by what is done with those tools.’”

  “Are you quoting me?” I asked, turning to her and seeing the kind smile on her face.

  “Of course. You’re the wisest man I’ve ever known,” Miriam said.

  She would never betray me; I knew that. It filled me with both sentimentality and rage when I realized that her loyalty to me was stronger than her loyalty to the Church of Nyx. If Miriam had to kill someone to prevent me from dying, she would.

  Looking out at the battle between mindless automatons unfolding before us, I turned my thoughts inward and thought of the man sharing my brain.

  Why did you kill her, Thale? In this world and the last, she would have died for you. What could you have possibly gained from slitting her throat!?

  A surge of sadness shot through my mind.

  Why not? The Miriam of my world was out of mana. She would only serve to distract me when I fought against my brother. I have never cared for my minions. Why should I care for her?

  I can feel your despair, Thale. I know you’re lying. It has been fifteen years, and the sight of her still fills you with guilt and regret.

  Silence, fool! You know nothing of undeath! I was a lich when I killed her. I was free of the mortal weakness of emotion and familial sentimentality back then. Now that I share with you this breathing suit of flesh and viscera, these weaknesses have returned to me.

  Sentimentality isn’t a weakness.

  Ha! Who’s lying now!? Not even you believe that.

  I continued walking down the sewer passageway. As my zombies fell, I reached down and created new ones. With that cycle of regenerative necromancy established, we advanced forward.