'Malzorath is finally down to his last two lives, huh?' thought Mumulbur as he looked at the sunrise, something he hadn't seen in hundreds of years.
That darn Promethius. Before confronting the Hero of that era, he simply thought the Holy Sword was just another artifact but it greatly exceeded his fears. It trapped his soul in a state of life and death where he was denied both even if he was technically dead.
He had been fully conscious since the day he died, something not every soul experiences before reincarnation or being thrown into the River of Lamentation.
The reason he's here and on the battlefield at the same time is due to a dark art that can divide his lifeforce. Use it too much and his entire physical body collapses. But with this many dead souls on the battlefield, he refined their death energy and turned it into life energy that he could use.
It was shameful using this dark art but when an awakened Hero, the Queen of the Valkyries, and the Archmage are his opponents, he can't help but be this cautious.
Fortunately, absorbing all the miasma (death energy) of the dead, gave him enough miasma to use this dark art.
With the humans thinking they've been saved, this is the critical moment to obtain his goal.
Even with Warrior Sense, Guinevere won't be able to detect him since he's just a soul that stole a dead boy's body.
Mumulbur could still sense that one of the four dragons he had, the biggest one, was still connected to him.
Anyway…
'What is that dragon doing? I definitely placed a [Corpse Explosion] command on it but it's not listening to it.'
This is one of the deadliest dark magic spells in his arsenal. It's capable of weaponizing the lifeforce inside an undead summon once the caster gives a command.
The smaller dragons definitely detonated judging by those explosions but Mumulbur could still see Thalgrimm's body towering over the buildings over the empire.
If he looked closer, he would've seen that Thalgrimm's corpse was slowly regaining its vigor as its skin was being restored. That vigor was due some mysterious energy radiating from the boy sitting on his head.
'My commanding skills might be a bit rusty. Doesn't matter. My goal is that Lauran girl. Once I take over her body, I will be reborn anew and stronger than ever.'
He ruled it out as his commanding ability being too inferior to fully dominate the dragon lord's corpse. Not a strange thing to happen since their souls are far different from mortal or demigod souls.
He'd need to be a dragonkin to handle such a powerful soul as he saw fit.
"Hey, there's a kid over there!" beyond the barrier, a knight spotted "Mumulbur" who was disguised as a boy. He was walking with a limp, an intentional injury to ward off any suspicion.
This boy got mauled by demons in the alleyway nearby, his entire lower half gone but Mumulbur was able to use [Masquerade Corpse] on him even with his rusty skills. It felt strange being in a body made of fluid and bones after thousands of years.
Naturally, he wanted to use his bodily functions but, seeing as that would be a distraction at the moment, he didn't waste any precious time.
Guinevere might have some bizarre artifact that can unmask his magic so he needed to hurry before his clone ran out of mana. It was a good thing he chose to do this after all those people died, otherwise he'd be weakened after the split.
The red-armored knights gave way for him and a priestess came along with the knight that spotted him. Fortunately, he was skin and bones so he didn't need to worry about burning to death by divine spells.
Ordinary divine spells don't target the soul so he had nothing to worry about.
You would think that an apocalyptic event wasn't happening outside with how cheerful the priest and knight looked. There was no panic, just relief on their faces.
"Little boy, you were really brave to come here by yourself!" the priestess said with a gentle voice as she held his hands, "Ah, you're so cold. Let's get you to the campfire after we examine you. I'll get you something warm to eat too."
His eyes unknowingly drifted to the priestess' cleavage. She didn't have a huge pair but they were still noticeable. Why did he feel... somewhat warm? It also felt like an electric shock went up his spine.
"We also gotta make sure you aren't infected." The knight added.
He nodded silently, trying to ignore that foreign sensation in his pants.
Mumulbur glanced around at all the humans who were celebrating, their cheers almost deafening him. It's been so long since he's had a physical body that hearing all this noise and excitement, felt almost unfamiliar.
He could even smell now. Luckily this dead body hadn't decomposed yet so the senses still remained.
'Throughout all my years as an undead, I have always shut down the desire to be a living being. Now that it's within reach, I am almost salivating at the thought of it. Why does the joy of others almost make me smile?'
Suddenly he realized why he got that strange feeling when he looked at the priestess' cleavage.
All the women he imprisoned over the years for his experiments flashed past his mind. Since he needed to draw runes on their skin with magic grease, his guinea pigs were always nude. Back then, he could suppress his desires, since he had no means of acting on them.
But now he recalled their bare bodies, the feminine scent radiating from every inch of their bodies, the special place between their legs…
'I mustn't lose myself to lust.'
Even if he told himself he shouldn't lose himself to his human desires, after living for thousands of years as a Lich, the thoughts still didn't leave his head.
"—We're here." The priestess brought Mumulbur to a large white tent that was set up outside the cathedral.
Since the main building was filled with people taking refuge, priests had to administer aid outside.
His wounds were checked. Since he only recently reanimated the boy, it didn't have the vitality of a healthy human anymore and would take long to recover.
"No sign of any demonic energy to indicate you're infected. But it looks like your vitals are a bit irregular." The doctor said after giving him a checkup, "You should stay in the cathedral's dorms. No need to worry about the fees. We're in dire circumstances so we won't charge your family."
"Speaking of…Did you see your parents when you came in?" asked the priestess.
The boy shook his head.
"My… parents… were killed trying to buy time for me to escape."
Why did he feel a little sad deep down?
"…"
The doctor stared at the priests with a troubled expression, "Those demons orphaned so many children. The scale is smaller than the great wars we've had over the years but we should still gather them all in one big group. Until we find an orphanage for them, we'll have to take them in at the church."
"Agreed. We can always use more hands to help out as well." The priestess nodded at the suggestion.
'Huh, humans are actually this caring towards one another…' somehow, he'd never noticed this. Or maybe he didn't care as a monster without feelings?
"Let's get you something to eat." She took his small hand.
Mumulbur was brought to a separate part of the camp by the priestess, where most of the children were gathered. All looked miserable while trembling and not a single one acknowledged his existence.
All they did was eat mechanically.
He knew it right then—these human children lost their families.
'Why do humans sacrifice their lives for their children?'
For millennia, he had viewed humans merely as resources—fleshy vessels to be drained, bones to be animated, or canvases for his experiments. Yet, as the gentle hands of the priestess wrapped a thick, woolen blanket around his frail shoulders, a foreign sensation bloomed in his chest.
It was warmth.
Not the heat of a fireball, nor the sting of blight magic, but a comfort that seemed to seep straight into his soul. As a being with only bones and a magic core for a body, he couldn't feel anything back then but now he felt the soft fabric and smelled the priestess' perfume on the blanket.
"Here, drink this slowly," she whispered as she stroked his hair, pressing a wooden bowl into his palms.
The scent hit him first. It was a simple broth of salted meat and roasted root vegetables, but to a being who had not tasted sustenance in thousands of years, it was intoxicating. His mouth watered—an involuntary biological response that deeply unsettled his mind.
Slowly, Mumulbur brought the edge of the bowl to his chapped lips and took a sip.
The rich, savory liquid cascaded down his throat, pooling in his stomach and sending a rush of vitality through his limbs.
A gasp escaped his lips.
The borrowed heart in his chest fluttered. It wasn't the thumping of a flesh puppet; it was a living rhythm. He could taste the salt, feel the steam against his eyelashes, and hear the crackling of the nearby campfire mingling with the lullabies of mothers comforting their surviving children.
Before he could process the sensory overload, a small weight pressed against his side.
A little girl, no older than six, her face smeared with ash and tears, had scooted next to him on the wooden bench.
She didn't speak.
She only leaned her head against his shoulder, seeking solace in the proximity of another living being.
In her small hand, she held out half of a stale piece of bread toward him.
All the food the cathedral served was made by skilled chefs and they never cheap out on ingredients due to the support of the nobles and merchant guilds, so this little girl probably ran with this piece of bread from home, thinking she'll never get another bite to eat.
She thought her last meal would be this piece of bread before demons tore her apart.
Mumulbur froze.
He was a Lord of the Undead, the architect of plagues, the grand manipulator who had orchestrated the fall of empires.
If he willed it, he could rot the bread in her hand and the flesh on her bones with a single thought.
Yet, looking into her grieving eyes, he felt a tightening in his throat.
This pathetic creature had lost her entire world to the demons raging outside, and her first instinct was to share her meager rations with a stranger because she had never experienced loneliness before.
He slowly reached out and took the bread. "Thank you," he rasped, the boy's vocal cords cracking. It was the first time in his existence he had ever spoken the words with genuine intent.
As he chewed the tough bread, a tear slipped down his cheek. Mumulbur reached up in alarm, wiping the moisture away with a trembling thumb.
He was crying.
The boy's residual memories, combined with the overwhelming assault of human empathy, sorrow, and kindness, were cracking the icy fortress of his mind. He watched the humans around him—priests exhausting their mana to heal the wounded, knights sharing their canteens, lovers holding each other tight, grateful for another breath.
There was a tragic beauty in their fragility.
They burned so brightly because they knew their flames could be extinguished at any moment.
He had spent eons suspended in the cold void of death, terrified of the River of Lamentation that will take his soul. But as he sat by the fire, feeling the soft weight of the sleeping orphan against his shoulder and the lingering taste of salt on his tongue, the truth crashed over him like a tidal wave.
He looked toward the cathedral spires where he knew Lauran was located. His master plan hadn't changed, but his motivation had entirely shifted on its axis. He no longer just wanted the girl's bottomless mana pool to fuel his ascension, nor did he simply want a vessel to escape the Holy Sword's curse.
He wanted this.
He wanted to taste sweet wine and bitter tears.
He wanted to feel the blazing heat of the summer sun on his skin and the freezing bite of winter. He wanted to understand the depths of human connection, the ache of loss, and the soaring heights of joy.
Lauran's body was his ticket to a genuine existence.
He would claim her life, yes, but not to plunge the world into darkness. He would take it so that, for the first time in his existence, he could finally learn what it meant to truly be alive.