A day had melted away since Leornars had started his impromptu lectures. He was currently confined to the study, going over sustainable farming concepts with Rachael Suvallina.
"Remember, the focus on crop rotation isn't just about soil fertility," Leornars droned, gesturing to a poorly drawn diagram of a turnip. "It's about minimizing the food supply for opportunistic pests. Think of it as a low-level biological siege."
Rachael, dutifully noting every word, didn't look up. Stacian, meanwhile, was sprawled elegantly in an armchair, not reading the dense tome in his lap so much as using it to subtly avoid eye contact.
The door, or what was supposed to be a door, slammed inward.
"It seems to me that you don't understand the concept of doors, Zaryter," Leornars said, his tone utterly flat. "They exist to keep people in and, notably, idiots out."
The Dragonian was heaving, his scales catching the light, his chest rattling like a bag of stones.
"Lord," Zaryter gasped, clutching his side. "There's a problem."
Leornars merely raised an eyebrow, a flicker of genuine interest sparking in his red eyes. "Go on, then. If you're going to interrupt my lecture on crop blight, it had better be good."
"You are either a lizard or a dog," Stacian murmured without bothering to shift her gaze from the book's title page her blue eyes glimmering.
"I'm a dragonian, not a mutt, you dryad!" Zaryter shot back, puffing up his chest indignantly.
Leornars let out an almost imperceptible sigh that still managed to deflate the air in the room.
"The villagers on the western side are attacking the Vurnam knights," Zaryter finally blurted out.
"And remind me again on precisely how that is my problem?" Leornars asked, leaning back in his chair.
"You... you said any news matters," Zaryter stammered.
"Indeed." Leornars nodded, a thin, almost invisible smile touching his lips. "Well done, Zaryter. A genuine piece of useful information."
Zaryter's tail gave a triumphant twitch as he shot a smug look at Stacian.
"Enjoy the moment," Stacian said, finally closing his book with a soft, final thud. "It won't last, lizard-head."
"It's dragonian!"
Rachael, sensing the immediate shift in priority, turned to Leornars. "What's on your mind? Will you help us? They are attacking on our land."
Leornars met her gaze, his expression changing to one of calm calculation, edged with a dangerous mirth. "Depends," he said.
"Depends on what?" she pressed, confusion clouding her eyes.
"On the number of their forces," Leornars clarified, pushing up from his chair. "I am not going to waste a valuable afternoon beating up three old men with pitchforks."
Stacian snickered as Zaryter hastily retreated from the room to cool down.
"By the way, why is the neighboring village attacking Vurnam?" Stacian asked.
"Due to our deposits of copper, iron, and bronze ores in our lands," Rachael explained, her voice tightening with resentment. "If they had control of it, it would significantly benefit their economy."
"So, the same as always," Leornars noted, his voice calm, yet colder than a winter tomb. "Greed."
He stood completely still for a moment, then spoke three names into the heavy stillness of the room. "Zhyelena, Bellian, and Zhyier."
His shadow seemed to ripple and thicken. A cloud of black fog, radiating an aura that tasted like ozone and deep, primordial fear, billowed up from the floor. Out of the smoke coalesced his three elite undead, their armor a seamless extension of the darkness.
"Lord," they intoned in perfect, chilling unison, then exchanged quick, confused glances.
"We are going to the knights' training grounds," Leornars commanded. "Get your tools ready."
They vanished back into the shadows with the same silent speed.
"I thought they had their weapons on them," Stacian commented, genuinely perplexed.
"They left them outside. I was cleaning them," Leornars said simply.
Rachael stared, completely thrown off balance. "You... you clean your servants' weapons?"
"Vurnam is exceptionally boring," Leornars said with a shrug, pulling on a black vest that starkly contrasted with his white sarouel pants. "I had to do something to waste time."
Rachael could only nod, a strange new respect mingling with her fear. "Understandable."
The undead returned, their freshly sharpened blades and gleaming polearms appearing even more menacing. They quickly entered the waiting carriage.
The Captain's Nightmare
The Vurnam Training Grounds were a whirlwind of activity. Knights swung their practice swords with practiced precision, others drilled in formation, and the air was alive with the sound of clashing steel and shouted orders.
Captain Luke, a middle-aged man with sun-bleached blonde hair, was sparring with two of his subordinates, his movements crisp and confident—until a presence descended upon them.
It wasn't a loud, sudden intrusion. It was a cold, quiet pressure, like the air itself had become thick and heavy, sucking the warmth and sound from the training field.
Luke, who had once stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the Guild Master to eliminate a mature black dragon, felt an inexplicable, visceral wave of terror. He instinctively pulled his sword free of its sheath, his face hard with confusion and mounting dread.
What is that? he thought, sweat instantly prickling his brow. I know the scent of a dragon. I know the stench of a demon. This… this is something else. It's too cold, too... absolute.
He glanced at his men. Some had frozen mid-swing, others had dropped their weapons, their faces pale and shaking.
A carriage pulled to a halt just outside the training circle. It was an ordinary carriage, yet it radiated an invisible, sickening aura that made Luke's skin feel tight and his limbs numb.
What the hell is that? Luke's mind screamed. A demon? A Demon Lord candidate? No, this feeling… it's the quiet that scares me. The calm that precedes an absolute obliteration.
The carriage door opened.
First, Rachael stepped out. Luke's grip tightened on his sword. Has the Lady of the Town lost her mind and allied with a fiend?
Then Stacian emerged, her light aura counterpoint to the oppressive gloom. Luke dismissed them both. It wasn't them.
Finally, Leornars stepped out.
He wore simple clothes—the black vest and white pants—but his presence was anything but simple. His Red Dragon earring glittered, reflecting the sunlight like a drop of freshly drawn blood, and the Crescent Moon necklace seemed to suck the light in.
To Captain Luke's veteran eyes, Leornars wasn't a man. He was a colossal venomous snake, coiled in the grass, its red eyes glowing with predatory patience, having decided Luke was a rodent.
Luke instinctively took a step back.
A young, zealous knight, fueled by panic and courage, broke ranks and charged, sword raised in a clumsy, desperate salute to honor.
Leornars didn't even turn his head. He shifted his weight, and his leg snapped out in an impossible blur. It was a flip kick, delivered with such precise, effortless force that it felt like an artillery strike. The knight was launched backward, not with a sickening thud, but a horrifying, compressed smack as he impacted the training grounds stone wall and crumpled.
"Is this how you invite guests, or just me?" Leornars asked Rachael, his voice a smooth, dangerous silk.
Rachael looked away, clearly guilty. "I am not responsible for a knight's fear."
Luke, overriding his panic, forced himself forward. He stopped two meters from Leornars, his sword held loosely but ready.
"I presume that if you are holding that blade, you are ready to fight me?" Leornars's gaze slid from the fallen knight to the captain's face, then to the exposed steel of the sword. His voice was a flat, cold statement, not a question.
Luke stopped dead. His heart felt like a trapped bird in his chest. He subconsciously activated the [Aura Sense] skill he had relied on for decades—a skill that allowed him to see weak points, openings, and threat levels.
What he saw was not a threat level. It was a finality.
Every possible angle of attack, every feint, every defensive posture—his skill projected his own death on repeat. The scenarios were instantaneous and brutal: a severed neck, a crushed skull, a dissolved heart.
This is bad, Luke realized, his mouth cotton-dry. One wrong move and the entire regiment will be wiped off the map. He is a walking, breathing executioner. No, he's a plague.
Rachael quickly stepped in, placing herself slightly between the two men. "Captain Luke! This is Leornars Servs Avrem! The White Plague! The one who rescued the slaves!"
The name hit Luke like a physical blow, snapping him out of his terror-trance. The man who moved like an apex predator was also the local savior. He slowly, deliberately, sheathed his sword.
"Oh, my apologies for drawing my weapon to you," Captain Luke said, forcing his voice to remain steady. "After all the help you have done for us." He then extended his hand for a polite shake, a gesture of respect and diplomacy.
Leornars merely looked at the proffered hand, then at Luke's face, and sighed.
Does he think I'm beneath him? Luke wondered, a fresh wave of panic mixing with wounded pride. I know if I had attacked earlier I would have been killed, but still!
"Your palm is sweaty," Leornars said simply, pointing a slender finger at the captain's extended hand.
Luke instantly understood. The relief was immediate, embarrassing, and profound.
So he just didn't want to touch my sweaty palm. Not because I'm beneath him. Just… hygiene. Luke mentally sighed, pulling his hand back as his terror receded, leaving behind a lingering, powerful respect. The man is still terrifying.