Lich for Hire

Ambrose hadn't expected the tiflings' inspections to be this strict. It also drove home just how long he'd been away—centuries had passed, and even his old hometown no longer matched his memories.

He said to the tifling mage, "It's been many years since I last returned to Redriver, and things may have changed. But I won't make things difficult for you. Just tell me how the inspection works."

The mage let out a small breath of relief and explained, "It's actually quite simple. There's a contract listing all prohibited actions. As long as you sign it, you may enter."

Ambrose took the magical contract and examined it carefully.

The terms themselves seemed reasonable: no breaking the kingdom's laws nor endangering its security. And neither was the penalty severe. A red pillar of light would simply appear above the offender's head, visible from afar.

This was a deterrent, essentially. It allowed criminals to be identified and apprehended immediately, minimizing any damage they might cause.

It was perfectly logical, if not for the peculiar patterns woven into the document.

Ambrose pointed at them. "What are these?"

"Anti-counterfeiting marks," the mage replied. "To prevent forgery."

"Is that so?"

Ambrose chuckled and cast Detect Thoughts on him.

The mage genuinely believed that explanation, which was likely a lie his superiors had told him.

Ambrose sighed. The kingdom really was in trouble. Even its own soldiers didn't realize those markings were written in the language of devils.

Add those infernal runes, and the nature of the contract changed completely.

The modified terms effectively read that, for every day spent within the Unholy Kingdom, the undersigned had to stop at least one unlawful act. Failure to do so would violate the contract, and their soul would be claimed by devils.

It was absurd. How could travelers suddenly be responsible for law enforcement? And what about those that simply never encountered a crime?

Infernal contracts didn't care about such details. Their enforcement was absolute. If Ambrose signed, he might have a chance to resist when the contract activated. An ordinary person would be dragged straight to hell.

"How long have these contracts been in use?" Ambrose asked.

"Only a few months," the mage replied. "But inspections have tightened recently. Fewer outsiders come now, so it's not used often."

"And if I don't sign?"

"I'm sorry. That's the rule."

"Very well. I'll sign."

Ambrose picked up the pen and left a flowing signature behind.

The mage checked it, then said respectfully, "Thank you for your cooperation, Master Arthas."

Ambrose nodded and walked out of the teleportation hall.

Using a fake name on a devil's contract was meaningless. What mattered was the act of signing, not the name itself. Devils cared about their own true names, not their victims'.

That was why Ambrose hadn't signed at all. He had simply used illusion magic to make everyone believe he had.

After the Lady of Mists Leyla regained her divinity, even her True Illusion seemed to have grown stronger. It had taken Ambrose very little effort to deceive every tifling present.

"I've heard that, after sleeping with the Goddess of Magic, all your spells become stronger. By that logic, if I spent a night with the Lady of Mists..." He clicked his tongue. "Well, if necessary, a little sacrifice might be acceptable."

Putting aside that dubious line of thought, Ambrose entered the city of Blackgate.

The streets were sparse, almost desolate. He headed straight for a tavern, only to find few adventurers inside.

Thinking back to the contract, he let out a quiet laugh.

"Looks like plenty of people have already fallen for it. Hell must be making a fortune."

He approached the bar. "A Midnight Blaze."

The bartender frowned. "I've never heard of it. Is that a specialty from elsewhere?"

He'd worked here for nearly ten years, but he'd never heard its like before.

The tifling bartender eyed Ambrose. Was this young man just making up a drink to look impressive?

Before Ambrose could explain, an old man nearby spoke up. "Blackthorn liquor and malt ale. Add powdered devil pepper and stir. That's a Midnight Blaze. Only old fossils who date back a few centuries still drink it."

The bartender hesitated, then nodded and began mixing the drink. The old man was a regular—it was unlikely they were tag-teaming him.

Ambrose casually set up a soundproof barrier, then turned to the old man. "Is that you, Vladimir?"

Vladimir—Mr. Misfortune himself—appeared to have been waiting for him.

"I haven't heard that name in years," the old man said coldly.

"No problem. I can call you that a few more times while I'm here," Ambrose replied cheerfully. "No charge for nostalgia."

Vladimir shot him a glare.

"I told you two months. It's only been half a month! Do you ever keep your word?"

Ambrose grinned. "No need to get worked up. At your age, I'd hate to turn you into a lich. Besides, you predicted I'd show up here, and I sensed nothing. Senior, you've finally surpassed me."

"I've always been better!" Vladimir snapped. "You only won by cheating!"

"Fine. You win," Ambrose said lightly. "I'm here to help save the world anyway. And from what I've seen, this tifling kingdom is in serious trouble."

He recounted the contract incident. "Making deals with devils... These tiflings have got a death wish. Aren't they afraid of divine punishment?"

"That's exactly what worries me," Mr. Misfortune said.

"A decision like this can't be made by just one person. Did most of the Unholy Council really agree to it?"

Ambrose remembered that the council had thirteen seats. Surely these contracts hadn't won a majority vote?

"I don't know," Vladimir admitted. "I've been away from the court for a long time. They never trusted me, so I've had little access to reliable information."

When a diviner said he couldn't obtain any answers, it meant the Goddess of Fate herself had barred the way.

Ambrose immediately understood what Vladimir left unsaid. He frowned.

"If fate won't let us uncover the answer easily, then it must matter all the more greatly. Who proposed this in the first place?"

"Domina Lowry," Vladimir said. "The oldest member of the council. A former infernal knight who returned from Hell. In recent centuries, she's since become an alchemist."

"Domina Lowry... I've heard the name. She's a prominent scholar of Alkhemia, ranked near the top. An infernal knight, Impure, and an alchemist? That doesn't sound right."

Vladimir shook his head. "I can't perceive anything about it."

Ambrose sighed. "You've gone further down the path of fate than I have, but you rely on it too much. Ever tried thinking for yourself?"

Vladimir fell silent. Perhaps that was the price diviners had to pay.

When the correct answer always appeared before you, why struggle for alternatives?

Over centuries, that habit would turn into dependence. And when the answers stopped coming, confusion naturally followed.

Still, Ambrose hadn't come to mock his senior. He continued probing, "What's supposed to happen in two months?"

"The date of Lyon's invasion," Vladimir said calmly.

Ambrose nodded. That matched his own estimate. Those two months were the time he'd managed to buy, no more than that. With Vladimir's confirmation, Lyon's invasion was all but set in stone. It was an unalterable future.

"Fine," Ambrose said. "Then I'll deal with the tifling problem within the next month or so. At the very least, before the war begins, we won't have to worry about the kingdom being dragged into Hell."

Mr. Misfortune frowned. "You? The Goddess of Fate won't even let me glimpse the kingdom's future, and you think you can manage it?"

"You always want to copy Fate's answers," Ambrose replied lightly. "I have my own methods."

Perhaps it was a matter of upbringing. Someone like Mr. Misfortune, a noble by birth, had never needed to struggle much. Once he gained the power of fate, he relied on it constantly, and it had always worked. He had never been under any real pressure.

Ambrose, on the other hand, had come from nothing. He had faced more trouble than he could count and learned early on that anything could happen on an adventure. It was better to know a little of everything, better to have more than one way to solve the same problem.

With no better option, Mr. Misfortune relented. "What do you need from me?"

"First, everything you can find on Domina Lowry. Second, an introduction to the Unholy Council."

Mr. Misfortune nodded. "Done. I can arrange both by tomorrow."

"Good."

Ambrose smiled, lifted his glass, and took a long drink. The sharp, biting flavor was a sensation he hadn't experienced in ages. Even if perceiving it through his soul wasn't quite the same, it still stirred up old memories.

Mr. Misfortune asked, "Why order a Midnight Blaze? Didn't you use to say that it burns like hell?"

"Because it was the first drink you ever bought me," Ambrose said. "You picked it just to mess with me, remember? Funny how, after all these years, I kind of miss it." He drained the glass, then added, "Thanks, Senior."

Mr. Misfortune blinked. "For what?"

"For saving Harvey. If you hadn't been waiting here for him, there's no way he could've made it back within a day. He'd already be in Hell."

If everyone entering the city had to sign that contract, then Harvey must have signed it too. The boy probably hadn't understood the infernal script and had walked straight into the trap. Without Mister Misfortune, one day would have been enough to damn him.

Mr. Misfortune fell silent for a long moment before finally saying, "I've spent my whole life without finding a suitable apprentice. And yet you, you of all people, end up with such a prodigy. I couldn't bear to see such talent die so pointlessly."

There was a trace of melancholy in his voice. "No matter how hard I try, it seems the Goddess of Fate favors you more."