The Dark Mage Of The Magus World-Chapter 132 - 133: The Path of Necromancy

Larry sipped his coffee as he studied Hutson’s posture. "How do you feel?"

Hutson flexed his fingers, testing his strength. "Recovered, mostly."

Larry nodded approvingly. "You heal fast. That constitution of yours is a rare blessing."

Hutson chuckled. "Still, I owe much to the potions you prepared. Without them, I’d be bedridden for far longer."

Indeed, Larry had painstakingly formulated magical elixirs to accelerate his recovery—an effort that had proven invaluable.

The older sorcerer smirked. "You should also thank Bessie. She’s been taking care of you all this time."

Hutson sighed, gazing toward the horizon. "I was never meant to stay, Larry. Even at your side, I won’t linger long."

He was certain of it. His ascension as a sorcerer would demand ever-greater resources.

The higher one climbs, the more one must leave behind.

As a first-rank sorcerer, Moonlight Grove still had much to offer him. But once he reached the second or even third rank, staying here would no longer be an option.

And Bessie...

She was a third-class sorcerer’s apprentice—one who had already forsaken her own path of ascension. Her ambitions lay elsewhere: to forge a lineage of pureblood sorcerers.

That was never his fate. He was not one to be bound—neither to a place nor to a legacy. His destiny was to rise.

Setting aside his thoughts, Hutson turned to Larry. "Do you know of any sorcerers in the Grove who can teach necromancy?"

Larry’s brow furrowed slightly. "Necromancy?" He pondered for a moment before nodding. "Lady Moran. She’s well-versed in the dark arts. I can reach out and see if she’s available. But Hutson... be careful. Learning too many disciplines will only lead to shallow mastery."

Hutson understood the warning.

Most sorcerer apprentices spent their lives mastering a single discipline. Even alchemy alone was enough to consume one’s entire existence. And necromancy? It was no less complex—perhaps even more so.

But Hutson had no intention of spreading himself thin.

"This is preparation," he said firmly. "I’ll gather knowledge while I can and refine it over time."

Larry considered this before relenting. He withdrew a rune stone, sending out a few silent messages.

Minutes later, he glanced up. "Lady Moran agreed. The foundational teachings of necromancy will cost you one hundred magic stones. If you’re willing, she can receive you this afternoon. D-District, House No. 6."

Hutson did not hesitate. "I’ll be there."

The air in this part of the Grove was thick with unseen energies. Unlike Larry’s tower, which exuded a scholarly charm, Lady Moran’s dwelling was ominous—a three-story abode with a secluded courtyard.

And in that courtyard...

Carnivorous flora.

Vile, sharp-toothed flowers twisted their stems as he approached, their gaping maws salivating at the scent of life. The very ground seemed to pulse with hunger.

Hutson paused at the threshold.

It wasn’t fear that gripped him—no, he did not fear these creatures.

Rather, he hesitated for a different reason.

Would they survive biting into his shields, or would they end up devouring themselves instead?

A smirk crossed his lips. This place will be interesting.

And with that thought, he stepped forward.

"Come in. These little darlings are merely curious about you; they won’t bite."

The voice drifted from within the house, rich and melodious, yet carrying an undertone of something... unknowable.

Hutson’s gaze lingered on the carnivorous flowers, their gaping maws dripping with viscous saliva, their eyes—if they could be called that—locked onto him like silent sentinels. He took a careful step forward, his every movement measured.

If they attacked, he was confident in his reflexes—he could dodge in time.

Yet they did not lunge. They simply watched, their undulating stems following his every step, as if weighing his worth.

Hutson strode to the door and knocked.

"Lady Moran, I am Hutson, Larry’s student."

The response was immediate. "Enter."

The door creaked open on its own. A gust of cold air whispered out from the darkness within, sending an unnatural chill down Hutson’s spine.

Steeling himself, he stepped inside.

The room was dim. Shadows stretched long, clawing into the corners where only a few oil lamps flickered weakly, their feeble flames casting trembling halos of light.

A thick, acrid scent permeated the space—a cloying mixture of preservatives and kerosene, seeping into his lungs.

Kerosene lamps? Hutson frowned slightly. Why use such an outdated light source? Fluorescent stones would provide far better illumination.

His gaze swept forward.

At the center of the room sat a square wooden table. Upon it, a thick tome lay open, its inked pages ancient and worn. Beside it, a glass bottle rested—filled with an eerie, bubbling green liquid that pulsed as though... alive.

Beyond the table, seated in the gloom, was a small, cloaked figure.

A black robe draped over them, swallowing their form in its heavy folds. Their face remained obscured, shrouded in the fabric’s deep hood.

Hutson instinctively refrained from probing with his spiritual senses. One does not recklessly inspect a full-fledged sorcerer.

The melodic voice floated once more from beneath the hood.

"You wish to learn the foundations of necromancy?"

Hutson inclined his head. "Yes. Here is the tuition."

Reaching into his robes, he withdrew a small leather pouch—its weight unmistakable. One hundred magic stones.

As soon as he released his grip, an unseen force swept it from his palm, pulling it through the air toward the table. The pouch landed soundlessly, disappearing into the folds of Lady Moran’s sleeve.

Then, with a mere flick of her hidden hand, another object drifted toward him—a glass bottle, suspended in the air like an offering.

Hutson caught it.

Inside, a golden-amber liquid sloshed, thick with fermentation. It resembled beer, but something about its consistency was... off.

"This," Lady Moran murmured, "is the foundation of necromancy. Drink it. Here."

Her final word carried weight. A warning.

She wanted to ensure he consumed it immediately—to prevent any resale or misuse of this knowledge-infused concoction.

Hutson understood perfectly.

Uncorking the bottle, he took a cautious sniff. The scent of fermented grains—stronger than any ale—rose to meet him.

Without hesitation, he tilted his head back and downed it in one gulp.

The moment the liquid touched his tongue, it disintegrated.

Not a single drop passed into his stomach. Instead, it vanished—absorbed directly into his being.

Then came the sensation.

A pressure built inside his skull, a storm of knowledge surging forth like a flood bursting through a shattered dam.

Hutson clenched his fists, steadying himself.

"This is a knowledge transmission."

The realization struck him even as the torrent of information coiled into his mind. He willed his spirit to remain calm, to absorb, control, and assimilate.

Minutes passed.

Then ten.

Then thirty.

When the flood subsided, Hutson slowly exhaled. His consciousness now brimmed with knowledge—true knowledge of the necromantic arts.

The nature of malice.

The origins of wraiths.

The fundamental principles of the soul.

A dark understanding settled within him.

He had stepped beyond the threshold.

Lady Moran’s voice, as sweet as a lark’s song, drifted toward him once more.

"You now possess the foundations of necromancy." A soft, knowing chuckle followed. "Soon, you shall be ready to cast its spells."

Her laughter—like the whisper of wind through a graveyard—lingered in the air, both haunting and strangely beautiful.