Chapter 22: Death Transformation

Just a few short sentences.

Gavin seemed to have said nothing at all, yet it felt as though he had explained everything; at the very least, Zaranda now held a clear answer in her heart.

Not a single one of these sentences expressed his personal feelings, yet the burning passion contained within them was something even Zaranda—who was usually slow and cautious in matters of the heart—could clearly sense. She felt enveloped by this warm emotion, as if her entire being were about to catch fire.

*What do you mean I shouldn't marry before you return? Bah! What does whether I marry or not have to do with him?*

The passage regarding the knights of the Teser people, in particular, struck a profound chord within her. It felt as if she had been ignited; a bright lamp had appeared at the forefront of her life, guiding her toward an entirely new direction.

Zaranda lost track of how many times she reread the letter. It was as if she wanted to imprint every single word into her mind before carefully folding it and tucking it into the most intimate place against her chest.

When she faced the book in her hands again, Zaranda’s attitude became much more solemn. Even when she saw the opening title—*The Seven Books of Military Strategy* (translated into the Common tongue of Faerûn)—she wasn't particularly surprised by the strange name.

As Zaranda calmed her mind and began to read deeply, her surprise and confusion grew, eventually evolving into complete shock. She found herself unable to put the manuscript down.

Every reader brings their own interpretation to a text.

Not to mention, this was a book that gathered thousands of years of ancient wisdom; the sensations it evoked were varied and profound.

Especially for someone like Zaranda, who came from a family of knights. She had been exposed to such things since she could walk, and as soon as she could ride a horse, she began following her father through various campaigns. In recent years, having been forced to take on major responsibilities, she had accumulated extensive combat experience.

When she cross-referenced her knowledge with the contents of this book of military strategy, she often experienced moments of sudden enlightenment.

Some parts left her striking the table in admiration; she had never realized that strategy and tactics could be executed in such ways to achieve such remarkable effects.

Zaranda did not realize that as she lost herself in her reading, she had involuntarily entered into resonance with the Weave. Her entire body, along with the *Seven Books of Military Strategy* in her hands, began to emit a faint glow. The ordinary words on the pages began to shine bit by bit, responding to the convergence of her will.

If Gavin had been present to witness this scene, his jaw would have undoubtedly dropped.

The sight before her was clearly Weave Resonance—except it wasn't Zaranda who was resonating, but the *Seven Books of Military Strategy*. Something unexpected was happening.

By the time Zaranda forced the book shut through sheer willpower, she found herself drenched in sweat, unaware of how much time had passed.

Gavin was definitely up to something.

At this moment, Zaranda was a hundred percent certain. The book of military strategy in her hands was the best proof. How could a young man she had known since childhood—someone she had taught most of what he knew—suddenly write something like this? He was merely using this as an excuse to flee from here, to flee from her.

But the problem was: if he wanted to flee, why go through all this trouble? Didn't leaving behind a book of military strategy prove that something was wrong with him? And why leave a letter saying he would return?

This plunged Zaranda back into contradiction. She had to find that fellow and uncover exactly what had happened to him, whether he fled to the Heavens or to the Hells.

In that moment, Zaranda made up her mind.

***

When Zaranda climbed out of Gavin's carriage, she realized it was already pitch black. The key figures of Norburg were all gathered outside the carriage.

With a face as cold as stone, Zaranda asked, "Have the people who went out to pursue the assassin returned?"

"Not yet, Captain," Nora replied.

"Due to Master Gavin's negligence, a goblin prisoner escaped, leading to this tragedy. Out of self-reproach, Master Gavin has personally gone to hunt down that goblin prisoner and has vowed not to return until he has slain him with his own hands. Until then, I will serve as the Acting Baron of Norburg and handle all related affairs with full authority," Zaranda said in a heavy voice. "I assume no one has objections?"

"None."

"We follow the Captain's arrangements."

To the onlookers, this was a logical and natural progression; no one raised an objection.

"Our most important task now is to bring the men, women, old, and young of Norburg safely to Daloma. All other matters are to be set aside for now. Therefore, I order all militia pursuing the assassin to withdraw immediately. A funeral shall be held on the spot for Lord Roan and Captain Aust's bodies."

"Nora, take your squad and find a suitable location to dig the graves. They must be large and deep."

"Alger, take your squad to collect wood. The more and the faster, the better."

"The rest of you, arrange the caravans for departure. We will move into Camie Village as soon as possible to rest for the night, and set out at dawn tomorrow. Move!"

"Understood!"

In the blink of an eye, Zaranda had deployed a series of tasks.

The Norburg militia once again demonstrated their efficiency. By the time the moon was nearing its zenith, a massive grave, over one and a half men deep, had been dug. Beside it, a huge open-air pyre for cremation had been constructed, with the bodies of Roan and Aust already laid upon it.

Zaranda nodded to a middle-aged man standing beside her, dressed in priestly robes. "Priest Abel, let us begin. I will leave the rest to you."

Priest Abel's face twitched slightly. He asked again to confirm, "Captain, can we not wait until tomorrow noon when the sun is at its highest to hold the funeral? Performing a cremation at this hour is truly not a wise choice."

Zaranda glanced at the two corpses on the pyre, her lip twitching involuntarily. The black mist swirling around them was already quite obvious, especially around the severed necks, where it was almost coalescing into the shape of heads. She thought to herself that she knew perfectly well that a midnight cremation was unwise, but the problem was that these two corpses wouldn't wait that long.

As previously stated, in Faerûn, death is not an end, but another form of beginning. Undead are not mere legends; they are a constant, looming presence.

If they were simply two murdered corpses, it might be manageable.

But if these two had been murdered by their own kin—especially blood relatives—the probability of trouble arising increased exponentially.

And if the heads of these two corpses were missing, anyone with a modicum of common sense knew the probability of trouble would be one hundred percent.

Even when facing a goblin warband, Zaranda would charge on horseback without flinching, but facing two unknown, resentment-filled undead made her heart race. She wanted to nip this in the bud as much as possible.

"Time waits for no one, Priest Abel. Do it!" Zaranda said decisively.

To soothe the priest's nerves, she added, "Rest assured, we are here. If something truly happens, you can leave first. Do not worry about us."

Zaranda's attempt at comfort backfired; it caused Priest Abel to stumble, nearly bringing him to tears. He was a servant of Tymora, the Goddess of Luck, primarily focused on protection and healing; he was not a follower of the God of Death. Purifying the dead was not his specialty.

But now he was being thrown into the deep end. Who else was there but him, the only priest present?

As Priest Abel began to chant the holy prayers, his previous hesitation vanished, replaced by an endless solemnity. The surrounding Weave began to vibrate, and a soft light emanated from his body. A large, grey, left-handed iron gauntlet flickered in and out of existence within the light—the holy symbol of Tymora.

Everyone bathed in the holy light felt the darkness in their hearts swept away, replaced by a warm sensation.

The corpses on the pyre, however, were a different story.

In the holy light, they were like boiling kettles, hissing and sputtering, as countless wisps of black smoke rose from them.

*Awooo! Awooo! Awooo!*

Faint, angry, and shrill howls seemed to echo in the ears of the crowd.

This unvented resentment seemed to bridge the gap to another world, attracting countless gazes. Invisible eyes lit up in the surrounding darkness, though they dared not approach too closely for fear of the bright holy light.

*Thump! Thump! Thump!*

The two headless corpses quickly began to thrash like fish out of water.

Zaranda and the others had clearly anticipated this and made full preparations. They were not lying on loose firewood, but on large, solid logs, bound together with ropes as thick as a thumb.

"Now! Now! Pour the holy water! Pour the holy water!" Priest Abel shouted nervously.

"Pour!" Zaranda commanded.

"Pouring" was perhaps too mild a word; "sloshing" was more accurate.

The holy water before them was not measured in bottles, but in buckets. There were five large buckets in total, and each person held a wooden ladle, frantically splashing the liquid onto the two corpses.

The holy water acted as if it had been poured into boiling oil; most of it never even touched the bodies, vaporizing instantly.

The black mist on the corpses had progressed beyond mere mist; it had turned into black flames. The aura of resentment and rage rose toward the heavens, especially from Roan.

The nature of undead—as dark products—was closely tied to the strength of the deceased, particularly their soul, though not exclusively. Another factor was the emotions accumulated before death and the price paid for them. If a soul was willing to seek vengeance and compromise with darkness, it would acquire staggering dark power.

Clearly, Roan was the latter case. Once he fully formed, he would be far more than a mere wraith, ghost, or zombie; he would likely transform directly into a headless knight, wandering forever in search of his head and his enemies, decapitating every living thing he encountered.

In a fit of desperation, Zaranda lifted an entire bucket of holy water and poured it directly onto the black flames that were nearly forming a head over Roan.

*Sizzle! Sizzle! Sizzle!*

In the face of such absolute quantity, the mass of black flames was overwhelmed and completely submerged.

*Sizzle! Sizzle! Sizzle!*

The other captains followed suit, lifting their buckets and drenching the bodies with holy water.

The two corpses immediately went still.

"Light it! Light it quickly!" Priest Abel collapsed to the ground, looking as if he had just been fished out of a river, completely soaked.

*Clang!*

Zaranda drew the greatsword from her back, and in the next second, it erupted in roaring flames. With a deep leap, she plunged the greatsword directly into the area of Roan's heart.

Even more intense flames rose up, completely enveloping Roan and igniting the wood beneath him.

*Awooo!*

An even more shrill scream erupted from deep within Roan's body—a piercing, thin sound that seemed capable of stabbing through one's soul. A dark shadow struggled, attempting to crawl out from Roan's body.

Zaranda gripped the hilt of the greatsword tightly, kneeling halfway into the pyre, allowing the tongues of flame to lick at her body.

Miraculously, it was as if she were wearing an invisible suit of armor that blocked the searing heat, preventing it from harming her in the slightest. Her fiery red hair danced wildly in the whirlwind created by the flames, making her look like a goddess of war descended to earth.

Those standing at a distance from the intense heat looked upon Zaranda with eyes full of heartfelt reverence.

Most of this credit would likely be attributed to the greatsword in her hands.

This weapon had been captured from the goblin warlord earlier. It was a powerful magical weapon that could not only release fire attacks but also provide the user with strong fire resistance.

That goblin warlord had been unlucky; he had been blinded by Gavin's trickery the moment they clashed, never having the chance to exert the weapon's true power. Now, in Zaranda's hands, it was being put to great use.

No matter how the dark shadow within Roan's body struggled, it could not break free, and was instead slowly consumed by the flames from the magical weapon and the pyre.

Due to the catalysis provided by the magical weapon in Zaranda's hand, the combustion of the pyre far exceeded expectations. In just over ten minutes, it burned to completion. The two corpses were reduced entirely to ash, leaving behind only bones that crumbled at a touch.

When Zaranda stepped out of the pyre, she showed no sign of fatigue. On the contrary, she radiated a faint red light from the inside out. Her eyes, in particular, were like dancing flames. As she approached from a distance, a wave of heat hit the onlookers, as if she had absorbed a massive amount of thermal energy from the intense fire. It seemed she had gained some extraordinary benefits from this special purification ritual.

With a heavy swing of her greatsword, Zaranda created a whirlwind that swept all the ashes into the nearby grave pit. She then said calmly, "Fill it in. Pack it down."

"Yes!" The crowd obeyed, quickly wielding their tools.

Before long, the area would be leveled.

Still glowing with a faint red light, Zaranda gazed in the direction Gavin had departed. She pressed her hand against her chest, where the letter lay, and whispered in a voice only she could hear

"You little brat... this is all I can do for you. Do not die out there. I look forward to our next meeting. Whether you are synchronized with an angel or possessed by a devil, I will drag your true self into the light."