A piercing equine shriek tore through the tavern's clamor, followed by the ??shattering crash?? of a thug hurtling through oak doors. Overturned tables splintered as chaos erupted. Parth and his mercenaries surged into the night, only to confront an impossible tableau:

  The red-bearded ringleader lay unconscious amidst shards of broken ale mugs. Three cronies writhed in shadowed corners, their death rattles echoing. A dozen others formed a trembling cordon around Adam, their daggers quivering like autumn leaves.

  Adam sat astride his skeletal steed, blade undrawn. The nightmare mount stamped a rhythmic death waltz upon the cobblestones. When a thug lunged screaming, iron-shod hooves pivoted with ballistic precision—a single hind-leg kick catapulted the attacker through a haycart.

  Parth's men froze mid-stride.

  Within that quivering human noose, Adam yanked reins as his steed executed carnage. The skeletal beast weaved through attackers like a scythe through wheat—stomping kneecaps, kicking ribs, trampling fingers. Thugs flew like ragdolls until survivors fled, dragging their senseless leader through mud.

  Long after Adam's swaying silhouette vanished into mist, Parth's company remained statues. Such horsemanship defied mortal comprehension—throughout the melee, the rider had nearly tumbled thrice. The steed itself had orchestrated the slaughter with primal intelligence.

  ……

  "Nearly perished from terror! You triumphed sans magic! Premeditated equine combat?"

  "Logical course."

  "How deduced the steed's combat prowess?"

  "Death knights of the abyss wage war thus."

  "That's a BONE horse, not living flesh! Next time, WARN me! Why flee earlier if so formidable?"

  "I am a lich of pacifist inclination."

  "Why engage now?"

  "Intolerable injustice from magic-illiterate vermin."

  "Bully the defenseless, fear the strong?"

  "Accurate summation. Proceeding steps?"

  "Steps?!" The cat suppressed a screech. "Mortals sleep at this hour. Secure lodging. Pretend to rest—you're a knight now!"

  "Liches require no repose."

  "Knightly pretense demands it! Dawn brings new schemes!"

  "Compliance..."

  Adam tethered his skeletal steed and entered a midnight tavern.

  From shadowed alleys, Parth withdrew his spying visage. "Observe the steed's full-body armor. His sealed visor conceals secrets. This knight transcends mortality. Tomorrow we recruit him—the Red Scorpions shall ascend!"

  ……

  In distant shadows, the male angel extinguished his divine radiance, materializing upon a bell tower's spire one kilometer from Adam's inn. His gaze pierced the night.

  The female angel coalesced beside him.

  "Condition of his assailants?"

  "Superficial injuries. He employed magic to win coin at dice. No further transgressions."

  "Gambling?"

  "Affirmative."

  Celestial silence descended.

  Observing the ramshackle inn, the female angel murmured, "His arcane competence suffices mediocrity. Crude control. We could obliterate him effortlessly."

  "Unwise. The Gray Mantle Accords forbid preemptive strikes against liches violating no edicts. Our pact with the Lich Conclave holds."

  "Yet surface-world presence implies hidden purpose."

  "Precisely. Let his designs manifest."

  Their forms dissolved into the night's fabric.

  The predawn crow of a rooster pierced the gloom. As slate-gray light seeped over cobblestones, townsfolk emerged to commence their diurnal drudgery.

  "Industrious" Adam exited the inn, tossing two silver coins onto the counter. Mounting his skeletal steed, he ambled toward the castle ramparts.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  "Today's agenda: pledge fealty to the liege lord, obtain heraldic insignia, then procure a lance from the smithy."

  "Why assume fealty-swearing proves simple?"

  "Complexity eludes me. Why refuse a salaried knight? Were skeletal troops to pledge me service, I'd embrace them."

  The black cat snorted derisively, though Adam remained impervious to counsel. Their symbiosis thrived on such dissonance—two discordant souls sharing one armored shell.

  The lich-knight soon loomed before the castle gates: a seven-meter-wide moat choked with algae, an iron-bound drawbridge of oak timbers, a five-meter-tall portcullis suspended mid-ascent, and wrist-thick iron bars crusted with oxidation.

  Two statuesque guards gripped halberds with mortuary stillness. One's eyes flickered toward Adam before resuming vacant stares.

  "I seek audience with your liege lord," Adam declared.

  The guards remained petrified sentinels.

  "I seek service under your liege lord. Kindly arrange an audience," Adam reiterated.

  The guards maintained their stony silence.

  "Greetings..."

  "Hold any title?" The taller guard finally rasped.

  "None yet. Appointment follows fealty."

  The guard's sneering gaze raked Adam's armor. "Our liege spurns hedge knights. For all we know, you're a beggar clad in stolen plate."

  His companion chuckled. "Or a lich wearing knight's guise. Hah!"

  Adam stiffened.

  "Objections?" The taller guard arched a brow.

  "Your logic proves sound." Adam scrambled onto his skeletal steed and fled.

  Watching the retreating figure, the shorter guard muttered, "Madman, surely? Expected bribes or pleas, not craven retreat."

  "Some backwater fool," the tall guard concluded.

  ……

  "Did my guise falter?"

  "Unlikely."

  "Then why jest about 'a lich in armor'?"

  "Mere mortal humor."

  "Your species mocks liches for sport? Grotesque!"

  The cat sighed. "Why oscillate between audacity and timidity?"

  "As long as none suspect lichdom, fear remains irrelevant."

  Crouched in an alley, Adam peered at the distant gates.

  Unbeknownst to him, Parth's silhouette emerged from another lane. "What drives his castle fixation? Earlier infiltration attempt?"

  "Blueblood perhaps?"

  "Nobility bears heraldry. Bide time—recruitment prospects linger."

  A page emerged, nailing a proclamation to the notice board. Citizens swarmed.

  Adam led his steed closer.

  "Afternoon tilts: Caspar's knights versus Behir's. Should Behir prevail, Count Caspar pledges fealty to Eileen Behir. Should Caspar's champions triumph, Eileen must wed Charles Caspar. Citizens summoned as witnesses..."

  "Literal interpretation suffices. Behir—a ducal house. Charles likely the Count's progeny."

  "Public invitation implies my eligibility!"

  "Presumably."

  "Direct audience with the liege!" Adam's ocular lenses flared with arcane luminescence.

  The cat rolled phantom pupils inside the helmet.

  ………

  In the castle's highest tower, Eileen's chamber held her entire retinue—Eberos, Hórsal, and all sworn blades. The air crackled with suppressed rage.

  "Why accept such terms?" Hórsal's gauntleted fist slammed the oaken table.

  "Because only these terms moved him," Eileen countered.

  "Then reject parley! His paltry forces can't contain us! We carve through!"

  "And then?" Eileen's glacial tone froze the room. "Where next? Caspar's our final card against the Crown's legions."

  Hórsal's jaw clenched, his protest dying unspoken.

  "We never should've come," spat a young knight. "This mousetrap baited with false vacillation. He'd never risk the King's wrath for House Behir."

  Every knight present seethed with barely contained fury—impotent fury. Only Eileen retained winter's calm.

  "No retreat existed from the start," she declared. "Not since we spurned the Crown's arbitration. Our names bind us—Behir, Eberos, Hórsal—all chained to this course. Caspar's but the first trial."

  Silence pooled like spilled quicksilver.

  "As Behir's 13th-generation heir, I, Eileen Beira Behir, demand your steel until the end. Blood will water this path. Some may not see victory. But your names shall be etched in Behir's chronicles—until time unmakes parchment and ink."

  Klang!?? Gauntleted fists struck breastplates in unison, the metallic chorus reverberating through the chamber.

  Hórsal maintained his salute. "None here flinch. None regret their oath. We merely seek the path forward."

  "How many blades pledge fealty?" Eileen's voice softened.

  "Eleven true knights. Caspar's host outnumbers us twofold. Even slaying two each, we claim but twenty-two."

  "And squires? Can they bear arms?"

  At his hesitation, Eileen decreed: "All squires knighted by my authority this hour."

  "Then twenty-five. Still insufficient."

  Eileen tossed a coin pouch to Eberos. "Hire every mercenary in the city. Display my sigil—gold flows freely."

  "Caspar permits this?"

  "Terms accepted. I claimed reinforcements arriving today under your command."

  Eberos bowed and vanished.

  Eileen swept her gaze across the room. "Others—rest. This afternoon, spill your utmost."

  "Aye!"

  Each face bore the grim resolve of those embracing oblivion.

  In this crucible, Eileen's company faced their direst trial—and greatest pivot. Unbeknownst to her, a warped shadow approached: a stunted lich whose malformed frame strained against ill-fitted armor.