Chapter 53: The Season of the Minotaur (2)

Simon spent the trip to Whispermire learning his first Tier III spell: Cursebound.

It was by far his most versatile spell yet, and the one that would take the longest to master. Whereas previous curse spells focused on inflicting a temporary ailment or debuff, Cursebound applied a permanent malediction at the cost of the caster being forced to include an escape clause. It also required touching the victim, which could make it impractical in combat.

In return, Cursebound was extremely versatile and could induce a multitude of nefarious effects, from massively debuffing stats, inflicting a horrifying hunger for human flesh, turning people blind or sterile, wracking them with pain, inciting animals to hate them, or even applying Anti-Heal effects. In fact, it was so versatile that dark mages had compiled entire books of potential curses.

“And you say I can forgo the escape clause if I weave the curse into an object?” Simon asked his teachers during the carriage trip. He, Cassandra, Duchar, and Lorimor all shared one, while a second carried most of their belongings and Hector’s coffin.

“Technically, there is one: getting rid of the object,” Duchar explained. “It is quite the clever loophole, I’m sure Your Majesty will agree.”

“Indeed it is,” Simon replied as he considered the applications. “And since Cursebound weaves stronger curses, this will let me empower items even further.”

Cassandra nodded. “And Your Majesty’s crafting Perk is already much stronger than most crafting Classes.”

“How so?” Simon asked in confusion. “I thought the Witch Class let you brew potions as well.”

“Crafted items are usually classified by the System into different ranks of quality and power from E to S, with E being non-magical objects and S being artifacts of immense power,” Cassandra explained. “Most crafting-related Classes, my Witch Class included, unlock those tiers over time. My knowledge is currently limited to C-rank potions or fetishes, for example.”

“But my Perks don’t mention anything about rank limits,” Simon replied before quickly catching on. “Ah, I see how it is. I can craft items of any rank or quality, but at the cost of them requiring miasma. I have traded versatility for depth and power.”

“You are the Lord of Dark,” Lorimor praised him obsequiously. “I cannot wait to see the Dark artifacts you will forge in pain and sorrow.”

“There is another thing I wish to test out.” Simon opened his palm and manifested the Brand of Greed. “This particular mark will bring luck, good fortune in commerce, and the ability to turn lead to gold on the person I bestow it upon, at the cost of a fraction of their wealth being teleported to me on the first day of each month. Those who cannot pay the tribute will be cursed to turn all that they touch into gold until they gather the necessary funds.”

Duchar immediately noticed the obvious issue. “How much wealth are we talking about?” he asked with curiosity. “Would it be a fraction of the total wealth? Would it only claim money, or do other assets also count? How would the curse even determine their worth?”

“I do not know, and I would like to find out,” Simon replied, his gaze focused on Cassandra. “I was told you financed your household by selling potions and items.”

“I would gladly test out the brand for Your Majesty,” Cassandra replied, anticipating his demand by raising her sleeve. “I have already accepted three of your marks. One more won’t hurt.”

“Thank you,” Simon said as he marked her. “I will remove it should it prove a burden.”

“If I may ask, Your Majesty…” Cassandra cleared her throat. “If you didn’t kill your father, how is it that you seem to have so many Perks?”

Simon scowled. Her question raised a new issue: how could he explain his sudden jump in strength? From their point of view, he had become rather powerful in the Overlord Class mere days after his predecessor perished. Anathemic Secrecy could hide his stats, but anyone with a brain could somewhat assess his level from circumstantial evidence.

“My father left me with victims to slay to level-up quickly,” Simon replied, which wasn’t even a lie considering Lorimor had been one of them. “However, my Class can only thrive in a particular environment. I require a seat of power, lordship, and subjects, which this place ought to provide.”

Speaking of subjects, they had come close enough to the Darkwood that he could feel the Muse’s caress in his mind.

“I sense you… you scion of the Minotaur,” she said through telepathy, causing Cassandra and Lorimor to perk up; the former with surprise, the latter with zeal.

“I am no scion, cursed muse of the woods,” Simon replied imperiously, his response taking the corrupted dryad aback. “I am the Lord of Dark, who has come to answer your call. Your freedom I shall grant, and your vassalage I demand.”

His words echoed through the brands he had placed upon his retainers, his power reverberating until it shocked the Muse into spooked submission.

“You… you have come for me? To free me from these stone shackles?” she asked, her surprise swiftly turning to joy and enthusiasm. “How sweet, how delightful! Come to me, my lord, to behold my beauty, and unto marriage we shall be joined!”

“Gather your creatures in your hall, so I may bestow upon them gifts and powers worthy of their new master,” Simon ordered. “These times of idleness are at an end. Our labor will begin as soon as I arrive.”

“Yes, my lord wrapped in shadows! I cannot wait to see you, my twisted love!”

“I heard her in my mind,” Cassandra muttered to herself. “She sounds so… old and worn.”

“Her vessel is rotten, but soon she will rise again, with barkskin fresh with blood!” Lorimor ranted, to Duchar’s annoyance. “What a day it will be once she blesses us all with her radiance again!”

“You will be an instrumental part of that, I assure you,” Simon said before bestowing him with an item he had crafted on the way here. “This is a Ring of Fiendmask I have crafted for you. It would do us no good if you were recognized around town, Lorimor, so this will help you hide easily enough. You will also lend me your Crestone. I have an urgent need for it, and I will have you craft others anyway.”

“Your Dark Majesty honors me beyond words,” Lorimor replied obsequiously as he traded away his Crestone. While it reduced his overall usefulness, it would also mostly defang him and ensure he didn’t do anything overly stupid.

Duchar observed everything with a cool, calculating gaze. He knew exactly who would be their first sacrifice.

“I have a question, Duchar,” Simon said. “The ritual only requires the death of the sacrifice, am I right? Not his soul.”

“No, not at all. The ritual feeds on the mana released from the victim’s body on expiration and the symbolic energies harnessed from the act itself.” Duchar stroked his chin as he assessed Lorimor. “Oh, I believe I see what Your Majesty has in mind.”

“Would it work?”

“Mayhaps,” Duchar replied hesitantly. “Such a workaround has never been attempted to my knowledge, and we cannot exactly check Your Majesty’s theory in a controlled environment until the equinox, but I suspect respecting the letter of the ritual matters more than its spirit. The power is, after all, in the act itself.”

Excellent. If all went according to plan, Simon might find himself eating his cake without having to pay for it.

A suitable outcome when dealing with demons.

Simon immediately went to meet with Odette Kano once they arrived at Whispermire. Lady Shabram had arranged the meeting and Simon arrived cloaked in a Fiendmask, changing his blonde hair to black and the family’s telltale grey eyes to green. It might have been paranoid to change his appearance so much, but it was better to be safe than sorry since Lauriane might investigate this area.

“Greetings, Mr… Belias, was it?” Odette asked once she had invited him to her office and shook his hand. “An odd name.”

“I come from a place very far away,” Simon lied easily as he sat down. “Thank you for seeing me today. I am sure your schedule must be packed, especially with that Valne-run consortium pressing down on you.”

“Quite so.” Odette’s gaze sharpened immediately as she sat behind her desk. “A trusted contact of mine in the Historical Artifact Collection Department in the central government told me you were a man of influence with a business proposal? What brings you to Whispermire?”

Simon placed Lorimor’s Crestone on the desk.

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

Odette gazed at it for a moment. Although she didn’t touch it, she clearly recognized it and tensed up.

“Is he dead?” she asked warily.

“Not yet.” She looked disappointed to hear that. “I have come to tell you that my thrall’s cultists will stop all attempts to kidnap your son as a gesture of goodwill.”

Odette’s expression turned into one of pure disgust. “You’re that thing’s emissary?”

“No,” Simon replied calmly. “I am her superior.”

She blinked. “Her superior?”

“Surely you humans understand the concept of hierarchy. If she were the equivalent of a marquise… I would be a duke.” Which wasn’t that far off from the truth. “My thrall has acted a little out of bounds lately, I won’t deny it, but I will personally put an end to her foolish indiscretions. I run a tight ship.”

Odette held his gaze, searching for any hint of deceit. “Prove it.”

Simon immediately activated his Fiendmask to transform into the same parody of demonic power he had worn in Valne to intimidate Septic. He grew wings, horns, and scales, and smirked at her with a ghastly smile of fangs.