Once the armor and weapons took shape, the magical wind instantly transformed into a massive water sphere suspended midair. With another wave of his hand, Valed pressed the armor and weapons into the water sphere. A sizzling sound followed, and a thick cloud of steam rose as the sphere shrank in size. Only then was the process complete.
Once everything was complete, the armor, helmets, and weapons slowly descended, automatically fitting onto fourteen skeletons with thick, sturdy bones. Valed then proceeded to awaken these skeletal warriors using the half-baked, flawed necromantic spells he'd secretly learned over the years—the same methods he'd employed to dig graves and summon cannon fodder skeletons.
After all this effort, Valed's magical reserves had been depleted once more. He couldn't help but inwardly lament how crude his method of channeling magic truly was. The inefficiency was appalling. Had a typical necromancer, well-versed in the art, performed these tasks, they likely would have achieved superior results using only a fraction of the mana Valed had expended.
This made Valed even more eager for his future studies—from age four to six, he had already completed all the foundational subjects with his tutor. Surely it was time to learn some real skills now?
Still, the final result was satisfying enough. With a few brief incantations, Valed reignited the terrifying phosphorescent glow in the skeletons' once-empty, blackened sockets.
They rose from the ground, their joints cracking with a "crackle, crackle" sound. After stretching their limbs, they performed a very human-like gesture of placing a hand over their hearts in a bow toward Valed, then stood straight and formed ranks. Their fine equipment and armor, along with their meticulous demeanor, gave them the air of elite soldiers—a pity they were all useless, flashy spearheads.
Vared possessed no knowledge of the magic required to create higher-tier undead, and even his basic necromantic arts were half-baked. He merely forced these skeletons into action through sheer magical compulsion. Or perhaps their strength, speed, and agility—due to the higher magical input from Vared—could be compared to that of ordinary tomb guardians.
But the mastery of martial arts, team coordination, formation tactics, and combat experience awakened in tomb guardians were entirely foreign to these undead. Not to mention those creatures dressed like necromancers—they knew not a single spell. They were like computers with high-end hardware but lacking an operating system and essential software. Just a pretty facade.
Of course, considering he'd achieved this level with his own half-baked skills, Valed was quite satisfied. He circled these "elite" tomb guardians once, yet something still felt off. Upon closer inspection, it became clear—their equipment was freshly manufactured, gleaming brand-new. In contrast, the tomb guardians within Dekenhove Castle had been in use for a long time, appearing worn and aged.
"But that's easily fixed," Valed mused briefly before snapping his fingers. "You lot, start fighting each other. Remember, don't kill each other—just make some dents."
Following this order, fourteen freshly minted tomb guardians began clashing. They struck each other's armor lightly with their halberds, swords, and shields, creating cracks and dents. Under Varred's direction, they scooped handfuls of dust and sprinkled it over themselves. Within minutes, these tomb guardians appeared as weathered and aged as their predecessors.
"Very good, but not quite perfect—"
Valed halted them at the right moment. He positioned the guards to stand watch beside him, mirroring their forebears' stance, then stepped cheerfully into the next burial chamber.
Bones littered the floor.
Just as Varred had suspected, this was another burial chamber for sacrificial followers. Unlike the previous chamber housing warriors who had willingly died for their master, this one contained the slaughtered remains of enslaved human sacrifices.
Thousands upon thousands of human remains lay scattered. Crouching down, Varad could see some had been killed by having their limbs severed, others beheaded at the waist, and still others had both limbs and head cut off. Most, however, had been decapitated in a single blow. Traces of hemp rope could be seen beside them. It appeared they had been bound alive—this one likely a man, that one a woman. Some were young, others too old and immobile to move.
Two years prior, when Valed was four, he began his foundational education. A vampire's "foundational education," however, differed significantly from what most would imagine. Beyond language and common knowledge, it delved deeply into the basics of necromancy and dark magic. Having studied these subjects, Valed's ability to identify skeletal remains surpassed that of most medical professionals.
He could almost discern the age, gender, manner of death, even the interests, habits, and occupations of every skeleton... weaving them into individual stories. At first, Valed found it quite fascinating. But after seeing too many, he suddenly felt he was going mad.
He realized abruptly what he was doing—he was assembling an army of the dead, a mad legion of bones, souls, and undead. These things were terrifying, dreadful, and despair-inducing. Prolonged exposure would inevitably corrupt the mind, turning it foul.
This made Valed understand why necromancers became madmen. He grasped it, at least in part. Why vampires placed such importance on their kind—because it was sheer madness. Those who hadn't witnessed an undead army might think it was a fantastic, cool thing. But in reality, looking at those pitiful skeletons and contemplating what he was about to do to them, Vared could state clearly:
"No, this is not good at all."
Of course, it wasn't exactly the worst thing in the world. When his sister was taking philosophy classes at school, she'd once asked him:
"Which is more tragic? An army of living men who are about to become dead men, or an army of dead men who have already lost their lives?"
"I don't know. Depends on the situation."
Valed shrugged in response back then. Then his dear sister pelted him with a pillow.
"No way, you idiot—if I answer like that, Sally will definitely laugh at me—you moron, think harder!"
"The one asking homework questions of her six-years-younger brother has no right to call me an idiot!"
Well, that was basically it. Metaphysical questions could wait until he was bored out of his mind. For now, Valed had only one thing to do—be happy. Just be happy.
Yes, he'd received the best gift to secure his place in this world—an entire legion of skeletons. What else could possibly be more joyful than that?
And so Valed began to laugh. He chuckled, he guffawed, he roared with unrestrained mirth. He laughed wildly at the endless sea of bones—a laughter that signified his farewell to his former human self. From this day forward, he was Valed von Castenstein, the heir to the Count of Castenstein, the Lord of Sylvania, and the brother of Isabella von Castenstein.
A necromancer and vampire lord.
When the slightly hysterical laughter subsided, Valed shook his head, raised his hand, and began to gather magical winds. As his hand rose higher, the winds grew fiercer. Pale spiritual light coiled around Valed's form, and the skeletons began to rise one by one. Those with broken spines had their vertebrae reconnected. Those missing limbs were reattached with the assistance of other skeletons. Those without heads embraced their skulls and placed them back on their frames. The wounds vanished under the caress of the magical wind, as if brand new.
Under the influence of the pallid light, these skeletal remains, dormant for millennia, stirred once more. Fueled by the ominous power of necromancy, they rose again, existing as servants to their caster. They stretched their newly reanimated, desecrated limbs. In the pitiful form of lowly undead, they reappeared in the world. Such a spell was far cruder than the fourteen meticulously crafted tomb guardians Valed had conjured earlier. Thus, his magic barely managed to sustain them.
"Clear out those things." Varred's eyes glowed with crimson magical light. He expended considerable energy to control these skeleton soldiers and immediately ascertained their exact number—eleven thousand two hundred and twenty-one in total.
However, over a thousand were too small, belonging to infants, and another thousand were worn down, belonging to the elderly. The truly usable ones numbered nearly ten thousand. The skeletal forces Valed commanded were the sturdy skeletons of adult men and women. He ordered them to carry the thousand-plus skeletons from the front, along with the rusted yet still valuable black iron weapons, back along the same path to where his legion was hidden.
Since nearly all the traps and mechanisms along the route had already been triggered, the return journey required little vigilance. The only notable hazard was the trapdoor that had previously caught Valed off guard.
Vared still sent the undead through. As before, the trap failed to activate against the lifeless skeletons. Once all the skeleton soldiers had passed, Vared cast levitation and glided across without incident.
Thus, Vared spent a productive night. Under the influence of the crimson moon Morria, the young vampire evaded detection by the vast majority. By leveraging his small forces against larger ones, he secured the foundation for his undead army and reaped numerous other benefits.
He returned home with fourteen new Tomb Guardians in tow. As for the Skeleton Wolves, not being part of the family's regular military ranks, their numbers typically went unnoticed. Valed was certain that two fewer Skeleton Wolves would cause no issues whatsoever.