The ten-day trek from Salted Haven to White City passed for Adam in a blink—lichen timelines being measured in centuries, not sunrises. For the cat, it became a marathon of torment spent fielding existential queries.

  Beneath a cerulean moon, Adam's visor tilted skyward: "Why lunar chromatic shifts? Crimson yesterday, argent tonight?"

  "Three moon aspects," the feline recited through gritted teeth. "Bloodmoon for strife, Silversheen for fortune, Azure for—"

  "Empirical basis?"

  "Since when do celestial truths need footnotes?"

  "You blindly accept unverified folklore?" Adam's metallic echo dripped with academic scorn.

  The cat's tail puffed. Enduring a simpleton's company paled against enduring said simpleton's condescension—a fresh circle of hell Dante overlooked.

  ……………………….

  Passing a graveyard, Adam observed mourners wailing. "Why lamentations?"

  "Grieving deceased kin. Natural response."

  "Purpose of grief?"

  "They mourn permanent separation."

  "Let me assist." Adam flicked a skeletal finger. The coffin burst open, its occupant lurching upright as reanimated corpse. Mourners scattered screaming.

  "Curious. Their 'mourning' seems...retractable."

  The cat's whiskers twitched in existential exhaustion.

  ......

  Spotting entwined lovers, Adam queried: "Their activity?"

  "Courtship rituals."

  "Define."

  "Prelude to procreation."

  "Ah."

  Moments later, two men embraced nearby.

  "And these?"

  "Cease inquiries!" The cat's hackles flared.

  For the lich, surface world proved ceaselessly fascinating. For his spectral companion, each question corroded sanity's last vestiges. Worse yet, Adam's newfound "understanding" of human lexicon now drove him to dissect cultural norms with undead logic—like vivisecting butterflies to comprehend flight.

  ......

  Upon learning it was Seventh Day, Adam insisted on attending chapel services.

  "Knightly devotions are mandatory! My oath included 'Piety'!" He brandished his handwritten vows as proof.

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  Though none else observed this ritual, Eileen acquiesced—halting their thousand-strong force for Adam's mechanized piety. The Lady's tolerance toward her "devout" champion reached unprecedented levels.

  Thus, the thousand-strong contingent encircled the chapel. Only Adam, Eileen, and the cat attended services—others found themselves mysteriously barred entry.

  "Explain the utility of Holy Spirit devotion," Adam's metallic voice echoed.

  "The Sacred Flame protects the faithful," the priest stammered, sweat staining his vestments.

  "Mechanism? Thaumaturgic intervention?"

  "Divine miracles."

  "Then why did pious knights perish in battle?"

  "Perhaps their faith proved... insufficient."

  "Quantification metrics for devotion?"

  "Service attendance factors in."

  The priest attempted recovery: "A knight of your piety needn't—"

  "Alarming deduction!" Adam interrupted. "Only I qualify as 'devout' here. Does this doom our campaign?"

  Silence gripped the chapel. The priest's gaze darted to Eileen's glacial stare, his forced chuckle doing little to mask terror.

  "I've uncovered theological paradox," Adam whispered triumphantly.

  "Ancient news," the cat deadpanned.

  "Reverend, next visit shall involve deeper analysis of divine thaumaturgy."

  "Other parishes... might better accommodate your inquiries," the priest croaked.

  "Why?" Adam's soulfire flickered question-mark shaped.

  No answers emerged—only the chapel's incense curling like spectral riddles.

  As the chapel doors slammed shut behind them—bolts audibly sliding—Adam marveled: "Such humility from the reverend!"

  The cat's retort emerged muffled against armor: "Self-preservation, more like."

  Throughout their ten-day march, Adam's existential inquiries tormented the feline, while Eileen orchestrated political maneuvers. Between scant hours of sleep, her quill danced across parchment—dispatching ultimatums, negotiating alliances.

  "By sacred rites tradition, the King remains confined to the capital until month's end. Our window narrows."

  A thousand troops—mere third of Caspar's pledged forces—seemed laughable against royal might. Many among their ranks despaired, yet Eileen's strategy crystallized: leverage these soldiers not as blades, but bargaining chips.

  Count Caspar's oath of allegiance, meticulously copied, now adorned every noble desk across the duchy. Smaller lords along their route found themselves "persuaded" by armored diplomacy—their reluctant pledges then used to pressure greater houses.

  "Baron Irdor's support secures doubled lands post-succession," Eileen declared, her map marked with calculated concessions. "Let hunger for territory cloud their caution."

  ......

  "Inform your lord he has one hour to acknowledge me as Beishire's sole heir," Eileen's envoy declared. "Refusal will see his skull impaled on our pikes."

  ......

  "Correct—I may never claim the duchy. But defy me, and sunset shall find you headless. Flee, and my knights will raze your estates, distributing lands to compliant smallfolk."

  ......

  "Should the Viscount reject our accord, I'll gladly negotiate with his brother. Rumor claims he's... eager to expedite inheritance."

  Each capitulation earned the surrendering lord gilded coins—minted with Beishire's falcon, each deliberately bloodstained at the edge. Each defiance summoned Adam to uproot an oak bare-handed or shatter a champion's shieldarm.

  The seventeen-year-old liege wielded carrot and flail with seasoned brutality.

  "Is she truly mortal?" Paz muttered, watching their last household knights gallop off as couriers. Even Horus' mercenaries had been conscripted for diplomatic raids.

  With personnel stretched thin, Eileen's household guard dwindled to Adam alone. A liege escorted solely by one knight-errant commanding potentially mutinous levies—unthinkable under normal circumstances.

  But normalcy had fled. After witnessing Adam uproot oaks and hurl millstones, none dared challenge his charge.

  Ten days of calculated intimidation swelled their forces—1,000 becoming 3,000 through snowballing allegiances. Now matching Count Caspar's original contingent, Adam's legend grew through Eileen's orchestrated rumors.

  When White City materialized through dawn mist, even the lich's lichen-like stillness fractured.

  Terraced houses cascaded across fertile plains, bisected by canal webs arched with stone bridges. The hum of commerce permeated bloom-laden breezes—antithesis to subterranean gloom.

  For Adam, this first true metropolis shattered undead comprehension frameworks. His soulfire flickered codex-reboot patterns, overwhelmed by surface-world's apex civilization.