“It’s a difficult matter.
If you don’t know the circumstances, you might think it’s simple.
A Death Knight was once an exceptional knight or warrior, so when it awakens as an undead, there’s a good chance that various belongings from the moment of its death remain nearby.
Of course, someone might have taken everything as spoils.
Still, there’s a reasonable chance that items like a shield bearing the crest of its original house—or documents or objects with similar clues—might be found.
But according to the book, a Death Knight cannot recognize such things.
Other people can clearly see what is drawn on a shield, for example, but the Death Knight cannot.
Even if its armor had its own real name engraved across it in huge letters at the moment of death, the Death Knight would neither see nor read it.”
“Then could someone else tell it?”
“It would kill them before they could.
A Death Knight kills the living on sight.
The only exception is necromancers who serve the same god, Brinis.
So, as I said before, the first necromancer who encounters a Death Knight must use the divine authority granted by the order to command it so that it no longer harms people, and then register it in the nearest city.
Only after that can it enter human settlements or roads.”
“Then couldn’t that necromancer—or someone it meets after registration—tell it?”
“That’s also difficult.
According to what I read, even if you say directly, ‘Your family’s crest is a cow,’ it won’t understand.
There’s a curse that interferes with recognition.
So you have to explain it indirectly—something like: ‘It is an animal with horns, hooves, and a tail, one that chews cud and produces milk.’ Even then, it doesn’t understand easily.
If, after all that effort, it finally asks, ‘So the house I belonged to before death bore a monster called a minotaur as its crest?’—that’s considered progress.
But reaching even that point takes days.”
“That really is difficult.”
“It is.
And in some cases, there aren’t even clues to begin with.
Even if you find a clue, you still have to explain that clue indirectly.
On top of that, it’s hard to find someone willing to help a Death Knight that earnestly, so doing all of this alone is nearly impossible.
In any case, you’ve received some good news.
If a Death Knight is chasing that man, it will make tracking him a bit easier for you later.”
“If the Death Knight hadn’t been chasing him… would things have been different?”
“A Death Knight would only begin pursuing him after a bounty was placed, which means he was already a murderer.
If you were lucky, someone other than your father might have been killed.
But that ‘someone else’ could have been you, or me, or someone else’s family.
Even if the Death Knight’s pursuit caused him to cross paths with your father, I believe the fault lies with him, not the Death Knight.”
“You’re right.
I won’t rush things.
Someday, I’ll make him pay.”
“I hope so.”
“…But the part where the High Rector created those worms—that was a bit disgusting.”
Rimas spoke in a lowered voice, wary that the High Rector might overhear.
Medipl also lowered his voice in reply.
“That is a spell of food creation—one only clerics can use.”
“Huh?
But worms aren’t food.”
“That’s food for zombies.
By their very nature, zombies are driven to bite and devour the living.
However, on the Imperial Continent, the Order of Brinis swore an oath to the Imperial house, and by the Order’s divine authority, all undead under its control are restrained— their very instincts suppressed.
Even so, zombies do have another natural source of sustenance besides human flesh: vermin.
In other words, a zombie must feed on either human flesh or vermin.
As far as I know, they don’t actually starve to death even if they eat nothing—they are undead, after all.
But they still suffer from an overwhelming hunger, and to quell it, they must consume something.
Since harming humans is forbidden, they are instead fed vermin.
This rite is a form of divine power rather than arcane magic, so mages cannot use it.
Even among clerics, what can be created varies by order.
For instance, the Order of Brinis, which serves a god of death, cannot create food fit for human consumption.”
“So they can only create vermin for zombies.”
“Exactly.
Or food lethal to humans.
Even in orders that can create edible food, they are usually limited to a single type.
One cannot live on that alone, so people must still farm or purchase other provisions, just like anyone else.
Eating is not merely a matter of staving off hunger.”
While conversing like that, they eventually arrived at the village of Shasheim.
The guards at the gate recognized the lord’s assessor and opened the gates for them.
As they were traveling with a judge and a High Rector, they were neither charged a toll nor asked for travel papers.
Medipl was well known throughout the Shadowfoot fief and did not need to show identification, and as a quasi-official working for the lord, he was exempt from tolls anyway.
However, a merchant like Rimas, though free to trade within the demesne, would normally have to pay a toll when passing certain points—usually at gates.
The toll was only a single coin, nothing significant, but being exempt still felt good.
Unlike Whitestone, Shasheim had inns.
Though the population was under 300, it connected to three outlying hamlets and stood at a crossroads leading to other villages—even along unmarked paths—so it had two inns.
In Whitestone, most land, mines, and quarries were privately owned by viscount Gardin, and those who came for stone were all his men or employees.
Even if they stayed overnight, they were distributed among village households rather than paying for lodging, so there was no need for inns.
Shasheim, however, was different.
Having asked at the gate which inn had more vacancies, they headed to one called “Clear Spring Water.” The judge’s party went to the village headman’s house despite the late hour—apparently by custom.
Thus, only High Rector Aerfey, Medipl, and Rimas went to the inn.
Though they had eaten some Imperial rations on the way, they had grown hungry again, so they ordered dinner and sat at an empty table.
Most guests had already gone to bed, but a few remained drinking on the first floor.
Several locals occupied two tables, gambling with cards.
Six men at each table—twelve in total—were deeply absorbed in betting, exchanging piles of copper coins and the occasional silver coin, paying no attention to newcomers.
The innkeeper provided space for such games because gamblers ordering food and drink through the night guaranteed steady income.
As long as they kept playing, it was essentially fixed revenue.
Travelers sometimes joined, but locals had priority, so it wasn’t easy.
Throughout the Empire, most card gambling involved a game called Voiker.
Rimas knew that much but had no idea how it was played.
His father, Skelvis, was a diligent man who neither gambled nor drank except as a beverage.
However, the High Rector kept glancing toward the card table, looking as though his hands were itching to join in.
Ordinary people do not gamble with MOW.
They assume any Mow would cheat using their exceptional abilities.
That said, it is not entirely impossible.
If one swears—staking their patron deity that they will not cheat, or, in the case of a mage, swearing upon their mana—such an oath cannot be broken, and even ordinary people will trust it.
Of course, that also means the game must be won by pure skill alone.
Whether Aerfey was any good at gambling was unclear, but the way his gaze kept drifting back to the table made it obvious he was eager to play.
“High Rector, it looks like you want to join that table.”
At Rimas’s remark, Aerfey gave a small smile.
“Clerics are people too—we have our hobbies.
Win or lose, there are few things I enjoy as much as gambling.”
“It seems the locals take priority.
Outsiders don’t often get a seat.”
“That’s usually true.
But even they grow tired of playing among themselves every day, so they do let outsiders join.
More importantly, in places like this, it’s all but impossible for a traveling cheat to fleece the locals and simply walk away.
Because of that, the villagers don’t feel much resistance.
And since there’s no real barrier, outsiders can join easily, which in turn makes the stakes larger—so it benefits both sides.”
“A ‘card sharp’ is someone who uses tricks to cheat.
It’s not that outsiders aren’t allowed to win.
The problem is winning through deception rather than skill or luck.”
“Even so, can ordinary villagers really spot the methods of a professional cheat?”
“Normally, no.
But anywhere in the Empire, even in a remote mountain village like this, no gambling can take place without permission from the Treasurer Guild.
The innkeeper pays a fee monthly or annually to operate it.
The Guild doesn’t just collect money—it oversees things and takes responsibility.
So if someone cheats excessively, they intervene and deal with the culprit.”
Even after that, Aerfey kept glancing toward the tables while eating, hoping for an open seat.
But none became available, and after finishing his meal, he went upstairs to the room with visible disappointment.
They paid separately for food, but a four-person room was available for 300 coins.
The High Rector generously covered an extra share so the three of them could have the room to themselves.
Though the beds were rough—stuffed with straw and covered with cloth—Rimas found them comfortable enough, so long as there were no bedbugs.
Having lived that way all his life, he had no trouble sleeping, and for the first time since the incident, he fell into a deep sleep without directly thinking of his father.
*Imperial Year 1215, September 13
The next morning, when Rimas woke, the High Rector was sitting on the bed with hands clasped and eyes closed.
Medipl gestured for silence with a finger to his lips.
Later, Medipl explained that he had been praying.
All clerics must pray regularly; if 24 hours pass without prayer, they lose access to divine power.
Most pray first thing in the morning.
Soon, the High Rector opened his eyes and stood.
After exchanging greetings, they ate breakfast provided by the inn and went outside.
While preparing to depart with their wagon, the judge’s party arrived, and they set off for the castle town.
Since they departed early, they reached Shadowfoot’s castle town before noon.
Passing through the gates was simple with the judge present, and tolls were waived.
Both the judge and Medipl, as a teacher under the lord’s administration, held official positions, so upon entering the town, they were required to report to the lord’s castle.
Medipl had sent word to Ledgetak, and until he arrived, the High Rector agreed to look after Rimas for the time being.
They each drove their own wagons toward the stables.
Though still young, Rimas could manage a cart well enough; depending on the situation, he would sometimes drive the mule pulling his father’s wagon in his stead.
They went to the place the High Rector usually used and left Rimas’s wagon there as well.
While one could stable animals at an inn, a fief-run ostler—unlike a privately operated inn—would take in not only horses and wagons but, in cases like Rimas’s, even donkeys or mules.
It was more expensive, but far more secure.
Medipl often praised the Empire, saying that the existence of such reliable systems was proof that the world was properly ordered.
For merchants, the greatest advantage was that goods would not be stolen, and any loss would be compensated.
Rimas, familiar with the place from his father, agreed to store his wagon there.
Upon arrival, numerous goblins and orcs were at work.
Some came forward to greet them.
These were slaves belonging to the fief; though other races existed among them, goblins and orcs were the most numerous.
Goblins, being more intelligent, handled customer-facing tasks, while the stronger orcs performed labor.
Over a thousand such slaves existed in Shadowfoot, mostly working in the castle town.
Each wore a metal collar marking their status—one they could not remove until death.
These collars were enchanted with a curse that made disobedience impossible.
Thus, the goblins and orcs at the station followed the lord’s commands perfectly—never lazy, never embezzling.
Human workers also worked there, but surrounded by slaves who would report wrongdoing regardless of personal feelings, corruption was nearly impossible.
Entrusting goods there ensured faithful care of animals and cargo.
Naturally, this was one of the lord’s revenue sources.
Since slaves received no wages—only minimal sustenance—the business was highly profitable.
However, demand was limited, so it did not make up a large portion of the fief’s income.
In a sparsely populated region like Shadowfoot, with few merchants needing storage or travelers requiring such services, usage remained relatively low.