Cyrabelle

Many books on the Necromancy School claimed that Necromancers could theoretically live forever. In reality, few below Legendary Rank survived for more than three hundred years.

After transforming into a Lich for the sake of a longer life, the cold loneliness of sinking into the Abyss would wear away at the soul. Once the soul was gone, the person would perish completely, even if the body remained.

Green quickened his pace as he thought. Seeing the Lich coachman and the Necromancer in the carriage had brought feelings long buried in his heart surging to the surface. Ever since he had arrived in this world, become a Half-Lich, and become a Necromancer, he had refused to face what the future held.

Green sensed that these feelings were unnatural. The Necromancer who had just passed by probably carried a Magic Artifact that stirred up negative emotions, making people recall things they would rather forget and sink into self-pity.

But once Green realized what was happening, he smiled faintly. He did not force the long-forgotten feelings away.

Since becoming a Necromancer, he had rarely felt such a powerful swing of emotion.

Walking through the heavy snow and savoring its melancholy gloom even had a touch of romance to it.

The romance soon wore off. The snow kept rising, first over his feet, then his ankles, then his calves, until it reached his knees... At least in Wood Slater's memory, this Void World had never seen a snowfall like it. There was no telling how many people this sudden blizzard would freeze to death in the streets. Drunks, vagrants, and the homeless could only huddle in filthy alleys sheltered from the wind. Then there were the vast slums in southeastern Stinnard, where shacks built from scavenged rubbish offered almost no protection from the cold.