Necromancer: Kingdom Building with My Legion of Undead Knights

Darion watched the graves get unearthed.

Normally, watching dead bodies being dug out of the ground should have been uncomfortable for him. Disturbing, even.

When he first awakened the Necromancer class, he had somewhat been bothered by this, was this what he would be doing? The sight of a single corpse would have been enough to make him look away.

But now? Now it was just work. He had seen too much death, caused too much death, raised too many dead for this to bother him anymore. He had gotten used to it.

The shovels rose and fell. The pile of dirt beside each grave grew larger. The undead worked in silence, their movements efficient, their hollow eyes fixed on the task.

Since he was digging at this massive scale, trying to unearth about 130 graves, not all of them would be perfect. That was just reality.

If he had come here aiming for only twenty corpses, he could have been more selective than he was now. He could have picked the freshest graves, the ones that looked most promising, and ignored the rest. But at this scale, with this many graves, he had to take what he could get.

And what he got was... inconsistent.

Some graves were empty.

Not completely empty, there were traces. A few bone fragments. A rusted belt buckle. The outline of a body that had long since turned to dust. But no usable corpse. Nothing he could raise. Whatever had been buried here had either decayed beyond usefulness or been disturbed by animals years ago. He couldn’t tell which, and it didn’t matter. Empty was empty.

Some skeletons were too damaged.

He watched as one of his undead lifted a corpse from its grave, only to have the left arm crumble into dust before it even cleared the hole. Another skeleton looked intact from a distance, but when one of the undead grabbed its ribcage to lift it, the bones shattered like dry twigs. Too brittle. Too old. Too far gone!

Darion sighed and walked over to inspect one himself. He crouched beside a skeleton that had seemed promising, mostly intact, decent size, the bones still dark but not crumbling. He pressed his finger against one of the ribs gently, testing it.

The bone broke. A small section simply gave way under the pressure, crumbling into fine powder that stuck to his fingertip. He pressed a little deeper into the same spot, curious, and the surrounding area collapsed inward like sand falling through an hourglass.

Oops.

He stood up and wiped the dust off his glove.

”Return it,” he commanded.

The undead knight picked up the broken remains and placed them back into the grave. Then it began pushing the dirt back in, covering what was left. More wasted time. More effort spent on nothing.

This was the problem with working at this scale. If he had been selective, he could have avoided these graves entirely. But he wasn’t selective. He was trying to fill a large inventory, and that meant digging up everything and sorting through the results.

He commanded that any unusable corpses be returned to their graves. More time wasted. Each empty grave had to be refilled. Each damaged skeleton had to be covered back up. The undead worked efficiently, but efficiency didn’t erase the fact that every refilled grave was a grave that had produced nothing.

Time was going. The sun had climbed higher. What he had hoped would be a quick session was stretching longer than expected.

Darion endured.

He watched. He waited. He inspected. He made judgment calls.

’Too old.’

’Too brittle.’

’Too damaged.’

’Empty.’

’ Empty.’

’Empty.’

The pattern repeated itself more often than he wanted. But gradually, slowly, a pile of usable corpses began to form.

After what felt like a long time, though he wasn’t sure how long exactly, he had what he needed.

One hundred and twenty corpses. Surprisingly intact bones. Not all of them were perfect, but they were solid enough. They would hold together in battle. They would not crumble at the first sign of pressure. They would serve.

One hundred and twenty should do for now.

The remaining ten slots in his inventory he was saving for something special. Commanders. High-profile knights. Large skeletons with strong frames. People who had been big and powerful in life. Because if battle instincts were retained, and if he had a large skeleton who could fight very well and didn’t fall easily on the battlefield? That was worth waiting for. That was worth being selective about.

But for now, he had one hundred and twenty corpses lined up before him, ready to be raised.

Darion stepped forward.

He placed his hand on the first corpse.

”Arise.”

Green light flickered. The corpse shuddered. Its hollow eyes opened, glowing faintly.

He moved to the next.

”Arise.”

Another shudder. Another pair of glowing eyes.

And the next.

”Arise.”

And the next.

”Arise.”

He lost count somewhere around the thirtieth. His voice became mechanical, the word losing its meaning as he repeated it over and over. His throat grew dry. His arm ached from reaching out to each corpse. But he didn’t stop.

”Arise.”

”Arise.”

”Arise.”

One hundred and twenty times.

Man. That was a lot of work.

By the end, he was actually feeling tired. Not exhausted, not the kind of fatigue that came from battle or running or physical strain. But a different kind of tired. A repetitive, draining, soul-wearying tiredness that came from saying the same word over and over until it lost all meaning.

But standing in front of him, all eyes glowing green, was an army.

One hundred and twenty knights.

They stood in neat rows, silent, waiting. Their armor was rusted, their bodies were dead, but their eyes burned with the green light of his binding. They would fight for him. They would die for him (again) if he commanded it.

Darion looked at them and allowed himself a small smile.

A lot of work but the result was nice to watch.