Amelia the Level Zero Hero

Chapter 97

Saros the Gnome Inventor hated squeezing into small spaces. Sure, he was a gnome— that was evident enough from his Title— but that didn’t mean he was flexible. He was no [Rogue], nor was he a [Spy]. And he certainly was not agile enough to plop through a hole barely half his size.

But still, he was barely a foot tall, and only a few inches wide. That served as an advantage when it came to infiltration. As much as he hated doing this, he had to do it regardless, because that was the only way he could infiltrate this lair.

“This damn tunnel better not lead to a dead end…” Saros grumbled under his breath.

It was a small crack in the side of the cavern. But the gnome had felt a light breeze blowing out from the other side, so it must have led somewhere. He just hoped it actually brought him to his target.

“I shouldn’t have sold that damn necronomicon to—” he started.

But his voice was cut off as he heard a muffled voice coming from just up ahead. He blinked, before hastening his crawling, and reaching the end of the tunnel. He poked his little head out as he heard the same voice from before exclaiming.

“We cannot delay it any further! We must act now!”

It was a familiar voice. Saros recognized it immediately. Even though his head was hanging from the ceiling, he regained his orientation quickly and his gaze landed on a figure standing at the center of the cave chamber.

That’s… him. The gnome narrowed his eyes. He saw the dark robes— and caught a glimpse of the familiar white hair. It was the very same man who Saros had auctioned off The Unholy Scriptures of the First Lich King to!

Tristan Devon. An A-ranked [Necromancer]— and a student who was expelled from the prestigious Mage Academy of Scholus. He stood right before a pedestal, speaking frantically to the distorted projection of a cloaked figure.

“...I sincerely must protest your decision, Kyn-Le’ard! This opportunity cannot be wasted—” he started, gesticulating wildly as Saros watched.

But the cloaked figure interrupted him brusquely. “That is enough, Tristan. Your requests are far too unreasonable.”

Saros wiggled uncomfortably in the crack on the ceiling, clinging onto the rock wall so he wouldn’t fall to the ground. He then swept his gaze over the room to fully take in his surroundings, when his gaze landed on a figure lying in the corner of the room.

A desiccated figure. Its darkened and blemished skin tightly hugged its skeletal body, and bone-like spikes protruded from its back. It wore the skull of an animal over its head as its long tail curled around itself. Even in its current condition— even though it looked like the rotting corpse of some monster— it looked like it was still breathing.

But make no mistake, it was dead. Or rather, it was undead. And Saros couldn’t help but stare at it with round eyes.

It was a wight.

An S-ranked undead that could only be artificially created through the sacrifice of thousands of zombies. It was unlike a draugr or a ghoul which were just a single dead body modified by magic. Wights were far more powerful because a [Necromancer] had to reanimate a considerable number of corpses first in a ritual.

Somehow, even though Tristan Devon was only an A-ranked [Necromancer], he had a wight under his control. How did he create it? Why was he able to control it at his level? Saros didn’t know. All he knew was that it lay there in the corner of the room with its eyes closed— like it was sleeping.

And the Gnome Inventor could only gulp nervously as he tried his best to not make a sound. If that thing spots me, I am dead. He held his breath, shrinking back ever so slightly at the sight of the wight.

Meanwhile, Tristan Devon continued conversing with the cloaked projection. “Kyn-Le’ard, we have the perfect opportunity to finally answer the Void’s calls! None of us are durable enough to serve as a vessel to its true power. But the First Lich King can withstand—”

“I said: no,” the projection repudiated him.

“But why?” He practically tore his white hair out of his head.

And the projection spoke simply. “The Sect of the Abyssal Thorns must remain vigilant, Tristan. There are reports of an angel roaming around the four continents, and many of our members have gone missing without a word. I suspect this angel might even be responsible for the destruction of the Miststorm Riders over a month ago…”

Saros furrowed his brows as he overheard this conversation. So his [Informant] was right— Trevor really was a member of the Sect of the Abyssal Thorns. The Gnome Inventor wanted to curse himself for his mistake. But he caught himself. Instead, he focused on the conversation at hand.

“You are correct that this is our perfect opportunity, Tristan,” the projection continued. “However, you are far too brash. We need to wait— we need to monitor this angel’s movements. And most importantly, we need our little pawn of a king to finish playing his part as well.”

“But if we wait any longer—” Tristan tried to protest once more, however the cloaked figure didn’t let him finish.

“That is all,” the projection said with finality in its distorted voice.

And then there was a flash. The projection vanished— the magic dissipating as Tristan stumbled back, hacking and cursing at nothing. The bright light made Saros wince, but he managed to hold himself back from making a sound.

Unfortunately, it also jolted the wight awake. It huffed, raising its head as it faced the [Necromancer]. Saros sucked in a quiet breath, trying to shrink even further back into his hole. But neither Tristan nor his undead spotted the little gnome just yet.

“Ridiculous— utterly ridiculous,” Tristan muttered under his breath. “With the Void’s touch, I can revive the First Lich King without even gathering the bones. This is every [Necromancer]’s dream. I am not going to squander this opportunity waiting for that old fool.”

Saros held eerily still. Only his pupils moved, tracking each subtle movement of the wight. It simply got to its feet, before nuzzling up against its master. Tristan scratched its neck in a daze, whispering softly to himself.

“As long as the phylactery remains untouched at Arelioth’s Pass, I’ll be able to recreate…”

And the wight stretched its back like a dog, before blinking. It stared up at Saros who felt his heart drop in his chest. The undead and the gnome locked eyes for a long moment. He didn’t move. He hoped it somehow missed him.

But it unhinged its jaws, clearly aiming at him. And he moved.

“Fuck—” the gnome cursed.

A blast of black flames shot up as the word left his mouth. He squeezed back into the crack in the ceiling as the blast ripped apart the stone. He could feel the intense heat even though he had escaped its path of destruction— he watched as the magic continued to melt its way through the cave.

The wight screeched, and Saros could hear a panicked voice down below.

“What’s going on?” Tristan asked. “What is—”

“I need to get out of here,” Saros said as he continued crawling back away from the lair.

And the blast of black flames continued pouring out, barely missing him as he escaped the scene.

—--

“I thought I was a goner,” Saros said as he finished recounting his tale. “I survived through sheer luck— just because the wight’s attack narrowly missed me.”

He lowered his head, staring down at the palm of his hand. He sat on the bed of the spare room of Nolan’s farm. It had been three days since the incident, but he could still feel the heat from the wight’s flames even now.

“I… don’t know if we even still have time to stop it,” the Gnome Inventor whispered. “We might already be too late. Ar’elith might have already been brought back, and there is nothing we can do to stop it.”

Saros finished as he sighed softly. He raised his head, glancing up at the sole member of his audience. Noele stood before the bed with her gaze darkened. She didn’t move. She didn’t even react. And of course not— how would anyone react to hearing this news? The world could be coming to an end, and it might already be too late to stop it.

Even if she was the Noble Spellsword— even if she was an A-ranked adventurer— she would still be left speechless. Slowly, she met the gnome’s gaze.

“...why?” she barely mustered out.

“I understand it’s a lot to take in,” Saros said reassuringly. “But we cannot panic— we must act now.”

Noele pursed her lips. She shook her head, taking in a deep breath. And he blinked as she repeated herself.

“Why?” she said. “Why would you do that?”

“What?” The gnome paused. He frowned back at her, and he jolted back as she pointed accusingly at him much to his surprise.

“Why would you sell that necronomicon to a member of the Sect of the Abyssal Thorns?!” Noele sputtered.

He stared back at her for a moment, taking in her words. He opened his mouth. “Wait, there’s a misunderstanding here—”

But the blonde girl interrupted him. “Are you insane? What did you think would happen?”

Saros scowled. “Look— I didn't know Tristan Devon was a member of the Sect of the Abyssal Thorns when I sold it to him. I just thought he was a random [Necromancer], alright?”

“That doesn’t make it any better.” She crossed her arms. “Why would you sell that necronomicon to a [Necromancer] in the first place? Of course he’s going to go and try to revive Ar’elith! That’s what they all do!”

“Firstly, who else would buy a necronomicon but a [Necromancer]?” the gnome snorted as he raised a finger. Then he waved a hand off dismissively. “Secondly, I was under the impression that your mentor had already dealt with the First Lich King. I didn’t think that she was lying to me when she said that.”

“Amelia’s not a liar,” Noele said with a frown.

“Maybe she isn’t, but that doesn’t change the fact that Ar’elith is coming back again, and we need to do something about it.” Saros harrumphed.

“I… that’s true.” The Noble Spellsword scratched her chin. She exhaled heavily as she took a step back. “It’s just quite a bit to process all at once— how did you even find out that Tristan Devon was a member of the Sect of the Abyssal Thorns anyway?”

Saros paused. He remembered the conclusion of the attack of the Miststorm Riders. He recalled a twisted rift— he heard the echoes of that depraved voice.

“I started to look into the Sect of the Abyssal Thorns about a month ago,” he explained, chewing his lower lip. “After the Void nearly swallowed us whole, and Amelia had to save us from our deaths.”

“Oh.” Noele blinked.

The gnome closed his eyes. “I spoke with quite a few high-leveled [Informants], but even then, I didn’t learn much about that cult’s operations… until a familiar name popped up.”

“Tristan Devon.” She nodded.

“Yes.”

“And that’s when you realized you made a mistake, right?”

“...yes.”

Saros gritted his teeth. He had been horrified to learn of his mistake— that he had sold off such a valuable and dangerous artifact to someone who worshiped the Void. He had quickly tried to rectify his mistake, and that led to the encounter just three days ago.

Now, knowing that Ar’elith could be revived— and not just that, but as a being empowered by the Void… the gnome clicked his tongue. His frustration was evident. And Noele must have taken notice of it.

“It’s not your fault,” she said, patting him on the shoulder with two fingers.

He shrugged her off. “I know it’s not my damn fault— I just find it annoying that your mentor is too busy running a restaurant to help fix things!”

“Amelia is eccentric, I won’t argue with that. Her priorities are often quite… odd.” Noele sighed as she took a seat next to the gnome. “But I’m sure if we explain the full situation to her, she’ll take some time off to help us out.”

“She better,” Saros grumbled, glancing out the dark window. “Because if we don’t stop this— we’re all going to die.”

Amelia the Level Zero Hero

Chapter 97

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