Scourge of the Undead 01

Fang Zhiyi sat dazed on his rickety wooden bed, coughing intermittently as the plot transmitted by "Xiao Hei" flooded his mind.

This was a world of magic. By all accounts, Fang Zhiyi should have been the descendant of two archmages. But ever since his parents perished in an uprising, his life had taken a drastic turn.

Fraught with poor health, he possessed only a meager reserve of magical power—the weakest of all, wind magic. The academy mentors who had once eagerly sought him out would shake their heads and leave after testing him. Gradually, no one paid him any attention.

The stark contrast gnawed at him. He remembered his childhood, when his parents could freely take him in and out of the king’s palace. Back then, a kind little princess had played with him. But now, he was left to rot in a ramshackle hut on the fringes of the slums.

His fingers traced the skeletal pendant in his hand—a trinket carved from bleached bone. One day, while visiting his parents’ graves as usual, he had encountered a frail old man. Compassionate by nature, Fang Zhiyi offered the starving elder his only piece of black bread. The old man’s eyes had lit up as he studied him, murmuring while patting Fang Zhiyi’s head, "What fine potential."

From that day onward, Fang Zhiyi had inexplicably become the old man’s disciple.

His mentor taught him a new form of magic: necromancy.

For the first time, his spirit, which had remained unresponsive to countless other spells, ignited upon contact with the dark arts. Thrilled, Fang Zhiyi devoted himself to learning, frequently venturing into graveyards—places filled with the dead, who neither looked down on him nor hurled insults.

As a sickly orphan, Fang Zhiyi was often bullied. The only kindness he received came from Lily’s family, who lived nearby. Lily’s father was a "deserter," having fled after refusing some order, which led to their expulsion from the city proper.

A knock sounded at his door. Fang Zhiyi hastily tucked away the skeletal pendant—his mentor had warned him never to let others see it, lest it invite disaster.

"Brother Zhiyi." Lily held up a chipped bowl. "Mom bought some cheap meat today and made soup. I brought you a bowl."

Fang Zhiyi looked at her. The girl’s face was dusted with flour, and a wild rose was tucked into her hair—the most extravagant adornment a slum child could afford.

"Thank you," Fang Zhiyi said warmly.

Ever since his graveyard excursions were discovered, rumors had spread that he practiced witchcraft. Now, whenever he walked the streets, he felt the weight of wary, hostile stares.

His mentor had died, but his face had been serene in passing. He left Fang Zhiyi a tattered notebook, urging him repeatedly to uphold justice.

"Even if you wield magic the world condemns as dark, as long as your heart remains righteous, the magic itself will never be evil."

That night, Fang Zhiyi mindlessly summoned and dismissed undead corpses, his expression hollow, unsure of what to do next.

In the end, he made a foolish decision: he would apply to the city’s magic academy.

When he entered the examination hall, many eyes widened in surprise. They recognized him—the son of two archmages, yet a talentless waste.

Using techniques from his mentor’s notes, Fang Zhiyi disguised his magic to sustain wind spells, barely scraping by with a passing grade. It was possible someone had pulled strings out of respect for his parents.

At first, he was elated. Graduating from the academy meant becoming a recognized mage, beloved by the people, free from hunger and hardship. He vowed to share half his future salary with Lily’s family.

Though his grades remained at the bottom and scorn followed him, he soon found a glimmer of hope—Princess Vivian was also at the academy. She was as radiant as ever, though her gaze toward him was cold. To Fang Zhiyi, she was like the sun itself.

Knowing he was unworthy, he kept his distance, content to watch from afar. Occasionally, he indulged in foolish gestures, like leaving wildflowers by her window—only to be mocked when caught.

Fang Zhiyi was used to ridicule. He walked away numb, barely wounded.

Then news came: the beastmen of the south had united and launched war against the kingdom.

Fang Zhiyi focused only on graduating. Once he did, he’d be a certified mage with a steady income from the Magic Association.

But Vivian’s childhood friend, Rhein, seemed to despise him. After relentless harassment, Rhein finally crossed the line—insulting Fang Zhiyi’s parents.

That was the one thing Fang Zhiyi could not tolerate. For the first time, he retaliated, which meant accepting Rhein’s challenge to a duel.

Amidst jeering classmates, the two faced off in the academy’s combat arena, its barriers designed to contain stray spells.

Rhein was a spellblade, excelling in both magic and swordsmanship—one of the academy’s top students. Everyone expected Fang Zhiyi to be humiliated. But after taking a beating, Fang Zhiyi snapped.

He unleashed the magic his mentor had taught him.

Black fog, unlike anything the students had seen, erupted from the spell circle in his palm. Screaming, they fled in terror.

For the first time in years, Fang Zhiyi felt power surge through him. This was it—necromancy, his true calling.

Rhein was left severely wounded. The arriving instructors subdued Fang Zhiyi, though he offered no resistance. They bound him roughly and threw him into the anti-magic prison.

He lost track of time in the darkness—until a shaft of light pierced his cell.

Princess Vivian stood before him in an opulent gown, bending down with the same gentle smile he remembered from childhood.

"The southern territories have fallen," she said. "The beastmen army marches on the capital." She begged him to save the kingdom.

Fang Zhiyi didn’t understand how he could.

But Vivian knew. She had watched the duel from the stands. The Fang Zhiyi who had exuded dark magic had been terrifyingly powerful—a natural-born necromancer.

The kingdom’s mages were helpless against the beastmen’s anti-magic-coated weapons. Vivian had researched necromancy, knowing only one solution: "An undead army is our last hope."

She pleaded with her father, the king, who remained silent.

The high priest objected vehemently. "Never! Necromancy is heresy against the Light! At this kingdom’s founding, it was a necromancer who slaughtered an entire city..."