I can evolve everything

A few hours later, the morning light pierced through the windows of Harold's mansion, but it could not dispel the chill in the house.

Raine woke up, slowly sat up in bed, and tried to move his shoulders.

Last night, the muscle soreness caused by overuse of breathing techniques has mostly disappeared. Instead, my body feels like I've been soaking in a hot spring, with a slight tingling sensation all over.

This is probably the healing effect of Ryan guiding that life energy to repair his muscles last night before going to sleep, following Karen's instructions.

Renn clenched his fist. Apart from some mental fatigue, his physical condition had recovered to 90%.

"Is this the basics of breathing techniques...?"

He muttered to himself, the tangible feeling of power giving him more confidence for today's actions.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

The atmosphere in the banquet hall on the first floor was quite somber.

The servants or guards in the house have temporarily left at Harold's behest.

Harold was sitting at the long table at that moment.

After a night of turmoil, the old sheriff looked ten years older.

He stared blankly at the cold oatmeal porridge in front of him, his eyes vacant, lost in thought.

Karen stood by the fireplace, carefully wiping her two-handed greatsword with a piece of deerskin. When she saw Renn come down, the old knight quickly scanned him.

"Looks like your heart is stronger than I thought," Karen greeted Raine. "How are you feeling? If your legs are still weak, stay in Ironwood Town and keep an eye on things. That necromancer definitely has more than just skeletons wielding bone clubs under his command. Once the battle starts, I might not be able to take care of you."

"I'm fine, Sir." Ryan handed over the iron box the Sir had given him yesterday. "And I want to see that necromancer for myself."

"I knew you'd say that."

"Hey everyone."

A crisp sound broke the stillness.

Ella, with half a loaf of buttered bread dangling from her mouth, leaned against the stair railing, watching the group of gloomy-looking men.

"We're going to fight evil, not to die. Can you please stop looking so somber?"

The girl jumped down the steps in a few steps, patted the bulging quiver at her waist, which contained the anti-demon arrows she had replenished overnight.

"Especially you, Harold." Ella moved closer to Harold, deliberately wrinkling her nose in an exaggerated way.

"If someone who doesn't know the situation saw you like this, they might think we're going to sell you to cannibals for dinner. Cheer up, this is your business partner."

Harold's cloudy eyes flickered, and a dry, bitter laugh escaped his throat, but he did not refute.

That's enough.

Karen interrupted Ella's joke and picked up the greatsword leaning against the wall.

"It's time to go. Let's go and come back as soon as possible."

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

They did not bring the guards from Tiemu Town with them on this mission.

The entire team consisted of only four people: Karen, Ryan, Ella, and Harold, who was leading the way while bearing the consequences of his actions.

But this was a last resort.

Harold admitted that the necromancer named "Mars" was inherently suspicious. Even though he and Mars had been working together for several years, their relationship was not good, and most of the time they were even wary of each other.

If you bring too many guards into the swamp, he will easily discover you. He will then immediately detonate the various necromantic traps you have set up and make a quick escape.

Of course, Karen also had her own considerations.

These guards were, after all, soldiers trained by Harold.

If, at a crucial moment, Harold suddenly turns against them and orders the guards to attack, they will truly be attacked from both sides.

Rather than carrying a bunch of uncontrollable variables, it's better to trust the sword in your hand.

The group passed through the North Gate again and stepped into the gray-white misty swamp.

Harold walked in front.

The old man walked with a limp, probing the path with his longsword, which he used as a cane, with each step. But he truly knew the secrets of this swamp.

"This way."

At that fork in the road, Harold didn't head down the muddy path that Ryan and the others had taken before, but instead pushed aside a dense patch of reeds on his right.

Surprisingly, a relatively solid dirt road was hidden behind the reeds.

In this swamp, the path is clearly not naturally formed, but rather paved with some kind of black stone and wooden stakes. However, it is covered by duckweed and shallow water year-round, and it is impossible to find if you are not familiar with the terrain.

“That’s the ‘Corpse Transport Route’,” Harold’s voice was low and hoarse. “Mars had his skeleton servants pave this road to transport some essential supplies and materials—that is, the corpses of those unfortunate adventurers. That wagon went in from here.”

Renn stepped on the ground; it was indeed very hard.

No wonder those adventurers saw the carriage appear deep in the swamp.

The four remained silent throughout the journey.

The surrounding scenery was monotonous and oppressive, consisting only of dead trees and swirling mist.

Occasionally, a few crows perched on the branches, cawing hoarsely.

Ella didn't give Harold a friendly look. Whenever Harold stopped to catch his breath, the girl would snort and mutter something like "hypocrite" in a voice that was neither too loud nor too soft, just loud enough for Harold to hear, as if she was deliberately trying to provoke him.

Karen remained silent, always keeping a distance of two steps behind Harold—a distance that allowed her to both protect him and strike at any moment.

Renn walked last.

His hand remained on the hilt of his sword, his gaze not only fixed ahead but also occasionally sweeping over the mist behind him.

Ever since stepping into this swamp, Renn had had a vague feeling.

A feeling of being spied on.

It was as if someone was silently watching their backs through the layers of white mist.

Is it Barron?

The feeling of being watched washed over him again, and Renn turned around abruptly. All he could see were empty reeds swaying in the swamp, with no one in sight.

"What's wrong?" Ella noticed his movements and asked in a low voice.

"It's nothing." Renn shook his head, but his grip on the sword tightened. "Maybe I'm just being paranoid."

But he knew that his intuition was rarely wrong. Especially after mastering the breathing technique, although his perception stats hadn't increased, his sharpness had definitely improved.

Intuition told Ryan that "The Hangman" Baron must be somewhere in this swamp.

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

With the hidden path provided by Harold, the four of them traveled more than twice as fast as when they entered the swamp last time.

We didn't encounter any ghouls or skeletons.

The area was almost too clean, like the calm before a storm.

About two hours later.

The fog ahead dissipated slightly. Several withered ash trees stood abruptly in the black water.

Raine's pupils contracted slightly.

This is where they encountered Baron before.

On the tallest ash tree, the zombie that Baron had hanged himself was still hanging there.

Unlike ordinary corpses, this zombie did not rot and stink. Due to necromancy, even though its neck was broken, it still maintained a strange vitality.

It swayed like a pendulum in the cold wind, its grayish-white dead fish eyes still moving, and its withered limbs twitching from time to time.

"stop."

Harold suddenly stopped in his tracks.

He looked at the struggling zombie in the tree, looking somewhat puzzled.

Something's not right.

The old man muttered to himself.

"What's wrong?" Karen quickly approached Harold.

"No...not that." Harold ignored him, his voice trembling slightly. "Mars...that necromancer, he's a person with severe mysophobia and a controlling nature."

"He would never allow his creation to be displayed so humiliatingly outside. According to past practice, in the event of any unforeseen circumstances, he would immediately send other undead creatures to retrieve it, or simply relinquish control of the corpse."

Harold turned around and looked at Karen and Ryan.

"This zombie has been hanging here for a whole day, maybe even longer. This shows that Mars didn't retrieve it at all."

"Either he wasn't in the swamp and couldn't have noticed this."

"Or..." Harold swallowed hard. "He might have known we were coming all along, or maybe because you and Baron lost too many zombies and skeletons when you entered the swamp last time, he might have already made preparations or run away, given his personality."

Renn felt a chill run down his spine.

If it's the latter, it means they don't have much time left to arrest Mars.

"Everyone be careful."

Karen slowly drew the greatsword from her back, entering a state of readiness for battle.

"It seems our necromancer friend was prepared all along."

The old knight glanced at the still-swaying zombie and said coldly:

"Harold, keep leading the way. Even if he was prepared, we need to see what's going on."

The wind suddenly picked up.

The wind caused the hanged zombie to spin violently, and its twisted, dead face turned to face the crowd.