Chapter Sixty-Seven: Mia's Growth

Veyd let Mia leave his helmet; the little ghost materialized behind them, dimming her own glow. In truth, this was usually her sleeping time. Ever since Veyd had defeated the stitched beast and Mia had absorbed its soul, she spent even more time nestled in her sleeping bag. She now slept nearly three-quarters of the day, waking for just the remaining quarter.

During her soul digestion, she wasn’t particularly lively—a fortunate thing, for her restless nature found long inactivity stifling. Only today had she finally finished breaking down the stitched beast’s soul. It was clear she was brimming with energy, not the least bit tired, her whole being vibrant and alert. She seemed to have grown again, now able to hide the faint phosphorescence that had accompanied her since birth within darkness.

Yet, after joining the Tania people’s group, she hadn’t had a chance to play. Her freedom stifled, Mia, pent up, keenly wished to vent her energy. But time and place were not on her side; this was no place to let her flit about at will. Veyd had called her out only to lure away the undead hound.

Both he and Lucas were covered in ash potion; the undead hound had merely reacted to a sound, not sensed intruders. If some other commotion could draw the beast away, Casimodo’s attention could be avoided. A ghost, elusive as she was, was perfectly suited for the task.

At Veyd’s direction, Mia floated upward, slipping to the other side of the mottled wall. Veyd and Lucas were in the distillery courtyard, hidden behind the stump of an apple tree, pressed close to the stone wall. Beyond lay the old wooden fence of the distillery, with slats through which they could glimpse the undead hound, stitched with black thread.

There was a marked difference between the undead hounds of Alvado and those of Bronte Village. The hounds of Bronte were severely decayed, rotting flesh revealing bone beneath—a terrifying sight, but, disregarding their stench and the diseases they might carry, their fighting power was less than that of a healthy wild dog. Those and the twisted stitched beast were likely just amusements, carelessly crafted by the necromancer.

But Alvado’s undead hounds were another matter entirely. The one before Veyd and Lucas was hairless, its skin a pallid gray with no sign of rot, so taut it might be called “firm.” Muscles bulged under the skin, its size that of an ordinary wild dog, but its strength and menace were far beyond.

The necromancer had extensively rebuilt it, likely keeping only the basic skeleton and outline; what remained inside could hardly be called a “dog.” Among its sharp fangs were some resembling those of a winter wolf, and in its gaping, cracked maw was a muzzle of iron. The muzzle, secured with leather straps and chains, was clasped around its neck like a shackle, with metal plates shielding its head. When it bit down, those iron blades would pierce and tear its target like knives.

These undead hounds had been turned into terrifying weapons. Their undead nature meant that even if their bodies were severed, they would still bite down and never let go. Coupled with the necromancer’s spells of corpse explosion and corpse poison, they could detonate at close range, releasing lethal toxins like bombs.

Compared to a winter wolf pack, their ferocity was evident. A low-level adventurer party capable of handling winter wolves would likely face annihilation against an equal number of these undead hounds—unless they possessed antidotes like the ones York brewed, their chances were slim.

A necromancer’s fifth-circle construct, assessed for combat and destruction, far surpassed ordinary iron-rank threats. Yet Veyd thought these undead hounds still fell short of silver rank. If Sweyn encountered a pack of them, he might suffer a wound or two out of unfamiliarity, but once he lit his flames, he would surely prevail. If the hounds were surrounded by fire from the start, they wouldn’t even have a chance to approach him.

In any case, entering Alvado had made Veyd even more aware of Casimodo’s danger. He had no wish to alarm that mage. Being discovered in a necromancer’s stronghold could only end in a horror story. They’d be torn to shreds by the tide of undead minions before ever glimpsing Casimodo himself.

Thus, Veyd pressed Lucas’s hand, instructing Mia to make a disturbance at the corner ahead.

Beyond the wall was Alvado’s street—an old, deserted lane, still stained with dark, dried blood. Veyd sensed Mia alight on a rooftop; the little ghost surveyed the scene from above and finally chose a snow shelter propped up on wooden frames.

The snow shelter had once been the stall for some vendor—perhaps selling wine, bread, or grilled meat. Now, no one would ever return to pack it away or clear the snow; its owner was gone forever. Already sagging under the burden of too much snow, the brown oilcloth had caved inward; even if left alone, it would collapse in a day or two.

Invisible to Veyd and Lucas, the little ghost stretched out her tiny hand, releasing a faint light. Magic gathered in her palm, but not the usual frost. Freezing snowflakes would take too long to bring down the awning, and Veyd had instructed her to make a quick commotion, so she chose a different method.

Suddenly, the snow on the shelter began to churn, as if it had come alive, dancing and leaping atop the shelter at Mia’s command. With a crash, the whole structure collapsed in a heap, the wooden frame cracking and snapping.

The undead hound, which had been slowly approaching the distillery, jerked its head up and dashed toward the noise at the corner. Lucas felt a wave of relief. He didn’t know what had happened, but from the sound, it seemed something had fallen over.

As he was counting their good fortune, he didn’t see the little ghost drift back to Veyd’s palm. Veyd scratched her tiny forehead; she hugged his finger, face clearly demanding praise. As for what kind of praise she wanted, it was hard to tell, but Veyd simply patted her head as always.

“I’ll play with you when we get back,” he promised her in his thoughts.

The little ghost nodded, then once again dissolved into mist, floating back into his helmet to hide in her little cloth pouch. Such a sensible child—never noisy, never troublesome.