Lich for Hire

Fate was never easy to grasp.

For most of his life, Mr. Misfortune had believed himself to be its favored child. Things had gone smoothly for him—almost too smoothly.

Since becoming a diviner, he had only ever lost once.

Over the centuries, he rose to become the shadow minister of the Unholy Kingdom. On the surface, he was merely a court mage, but in truth, nearly every proposal passed through his hands. He reviewed, revised, and approved every single one.

Under his careful stewardship, the kingdom prospered. Wealth accumulated, the population grew, and stability reigned.

From top to bottom, the whole kingdom was satisfied with him.

Later, as the Lyon Empire grew increasingly domineering, Mr. Misfortune chose the safest course of action. Not only did he preserve the kingdom's economy and people's livelihoods, he also successfully resisted Lyon's pressure.

Everything had been perfect.

But at some point, he had lost track of the kingdom's future.

Though countless threads of fate interlaced themselves before his eyes, none revealed anything about the kingdom. It was as if its future had been deliberately erased.

From that moment on, unease had taken root in his heart.

And yet, strangely enough, the moment he saw Ambrose again, that unease vanished. The scoundrel had always been full of schemes and tricks. If anyone could pull off the impossible, it might just be him.

Without wasting any time, Mr. Misfortune immediately set about gathering the information Ambrose needed.

Meanwhile, Ambrose retreated into his extradimensional space and began rifling through his towering bookshelves.

He pulled out over a dozen tomes related to demons. With a wave of his hand, he summoned a swarm of Mage Hands, each one lifting a heavy volume and flipping through its pages.

Expanding his perception, Ambrose read all the books simultaneously.

This was one of the advantages of being a lich: he didn't need eyes. His heightened awareness allowed him to process vast amounts of information at once.

Pages flipped faster and faster. One by one, the books were discarded back onto the shelves.

At last, he kept a single volume in front of him and began reading it carefully.

A long while later, he closed it.

Every instance of infernal script bore distinct characteristics. Different archdevils left their mark in the shapes and structure of their writing. From this tome, Ambrose had identified the origin of the contract's runes—and the answer was troubling.

The contract came from not one, but two archdevils: Tiamat and Sariel.

Tiamat, the Dragon Queen, was practically an old nemesis of Ambrose. He hadn't expected her to have planted seeds among the tiflings in addition to stirring up trouble in Alkhemia and collaborating with Shara.

Fortunately, Tiamat herself wasn't the real problem. Ambrose knew her well. Half the cults on the continent had some connection to her, and he'd dealt with plenty of them back in his adventuring days.

Her influence here would likely be limited. Someone like the artificial half-draconian Geronimo was already the extent of her influence—since the dragons had been expelled from the continent and the Cult of Dragonkind demolished, she had had a hard time marshaling her power on the mainland.

Ambrose could handle a handful of her devoted followers easily.

Sariel, however, was another matter entirely. A former angel who had dared to wage war against Hell itself before falling and becoming an archdevil, she now ruled the first layer of Hell. Her status far surpassed Tiamat's.

More importantly, Sariel had a habit of collecting powerful warriors.

Over the years, countless strong souls had been drawn into Hell and bound into her service.

It was said she could even send those souls back to the mortal world, possessing her followers or those who struck bargains with her.

That was the truly terrifying part. An army composed entirely of elite warriors, hardened by Hell's brutal environment over untold years—if such a legion were unleashed upon the mortal world, it would spell catastrophe. Entire nations could fall.

"The ‘Goddess Alliance' keeps cropping up again and again," Ambrose muttered. "But without Shara's help as an insider this time, breaking it apart won't be easy." If the contract bore the marks of both Tiamat and Sariel, then the Hellgates at the border must also be due to their influence. This infiltration had clearly been planned long in advance.

"Senior, what exactly have you been guarding all these years?" Ambrose grumbled. "You didn't even notice something this big?"

He now faced two problems: first, to prevent the entire kingdom from falling into Hell; second, to stop the impending invasion from Lyon.

By conventional logic, the first step should be to root out the traitor, the key figure collaborating with the archdevils. Based on current intelligence, that was most likely Domina Lowry, the former infernal knight.

Eliminate her, and perhaps the kingdom's damnation would be halted.

But in reality, it wouldn't be that simple. Too much time had passed. The plan was likely already well underway. The Hellgates at the border was clearly part of it, and his poor senior had probably been nothing more than a pawn.

If the gates were tied to the larger scheme, destroying them outright might actually fulfill the devils' objectives.

But without those gates acting as a barrier, who could possibly stop Lyon's advance?

Ambrose absolutely could not allow Lyon to seize the tiflings' land. If they did, their power would surge even further, making them nearly impossible to oppose in the future.

In other words, hunting down the traitor wasn't the priority.

"I need the full picture first," Ambrose said to himself. "Only then can I prescribe the right cure."

He spread out stacks of draft paper and began scribbling calculations and possibilities. Whenever faced with a major problem, he always mapped out every scenario before forming a true plan.

A day later, Mr. Misfortune returned with detailed information on Domina Lowry. It was astonishingly thorough, covering everything from her childhood to the present, down to her daily habits.

Ambrose raised an eyebrow. "This detailed? Did you prepare this in advance?"

Mr. Misfortune deflected, "Don't worry about how I got it. Just read it. It's all accurate."

Ambrose stared at him for a moment, a suspicion forming. This old man... could he have been in love with her? Only later did he discover something was wrong, at which point he forced himself to abandon those feelings...

He was tempted to pry, but judging by the look on Mr. Misfortune's face, he wouldn't get an answer. So instead, Ambrose focused on the documents.

The information was scattered, but with a clear objective in mind, he quickly found what he needed.

By dawn the next day, he looked up and said, "That's enough. I've figured out how to uncover Domina Lowry's entire plan. Can you arrange a meeting? Today, preferably."

Mr. Misfortune frowned. "Isn't that a bit ridiculous? I've worked on this for years without success, but you claim to have solved it overnight? You're not tricking me, are you?"

"How could I?" Ambrose replied instinctively, then caught the mocking look in his senior's eyes and amended, "Even if I did trick you back then, it was just that once. Relax. I'm not here to scam you. I've got far bigger deals on the line."

Though he remained doubtful, Mr. Misfortune eventually nodded.

"I can take you to her, but that's it. The moment she sees me, she might call the guards. Are you sure about this?"

"Just getting me in is enough," Ambrose said. "According to your notes, after her daily afternoon tea, she rests for an hour. Let's go then."

"Fine. Follow me."

They headed for the teleportation array. The surrounding soldiers seemed to ignore them completely.

Once again, Mister Misfortune had severed the threads of fate around them, allowing them to pass unnoticed.

Ambrose couldn't help but remark, "That ability... You really know more than I do. I was never able to learn that."

"Of course," Mister Misfortune said with a sigh. "Might be the only thing I'm better at."

"Come on now," Ambrose chuckled. "You've got me beat in age too. You've lived longer."

Mister Misfortune shot him a glare before activating the array. In an instant, they crossed hundreds of kilometers and arrived in another city.

Melodious music filled the air of the capital of the Unholy Kingdom, Harmonia. Here, the city's orchestras played day and night, singing praises to the great Arthur Lyon.

Though the tiflings were deemed impure usurpers of power, they still sang hymns to a hero. That contradiction was precisely what gave the kingdom its character.