Necromancer Academy’s Genius Summoner - Chapter 654

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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The Summoning Genius of the Necromancer School, Chapter 654
[Who are you?]
The voice was glacial, as though the speaker harbored not a shred of interest in anyone else.
Simon took a breath, choosing his words with care, then spoke.
Business only. Fast. Concise.
“I am Simon from Kizen! I’ve come to Northern Kalos under Neftis’s orders.”
He extended the letter bearing Neftis’s seal respectfully, but the eyes behind the helmet did not even glance at it.
[I have never permitted visits from outsiders.]
Whoosh!
As the Northern Duke turned his back, his red cloak whipped violently in the wind.
[And the North has no leisure to waste on training novices.]
The Northern Duke seized his horse’s reins.
[Move aside.]
The Northern Duke passed Simon by, followed by countless Phantom Durahans. Simon stood rooted to the spot, wedged helplessly among the marching cavalry, unable to stir until the entire force had departed.
At last, when all the undead had marched out, nothing remained but dust swirling in the wind with a soft whistling sound.
‘Phew.’
Simon watched the Northern Duke and his undead soldiers recede swiftly, then tucked Neftis’s letter back into his pocket.
Beads of sweat dotted his brow. Merely holding that gaze had drained him entirely.
‘Formidable presence.’
Though the first meeting had gone poorly, Simon felt not discouraged but inflamed with even greater intensity.
What manner of person was the Northern Duke? What life had he led, and what convictions did he hold?
He found himself all the more curious—desperate, even, to speak with that senior Legion Commander.
[Kahahaha! Turned away at the gates, just as expected! Now what will you do, boy?]
Pier, observing from the sidelines, laughed with obvious delight. Simon’s own lips curved upward in response.
“I’ll simply dig in my heels until he agrees to see me.”
Simon turned toward the Northern Duke’s Castle.

* * *
The City Gate hung open now that the Phantom Durahans had departed. There were no guards posted, so Simon slipped through into the inner fortress without difficulty.
‘Hmm.’
For the legendary seat of humanity’s hero—the Northern Duke himself—the stronghold was surprisingly small and modest.
It was designed with ruthless efficiency for defense against external threats, yet entirely lacked those fixtures of luxury and indulgence that any noble residence ought to boast. Not a single statue, fountain, or patch of grass.
Most of the buildings appeared to serve as armories, grain stores, or civilian shelters.
Simon navigated carefully to avoid the horse droppings and slipped through the gap in the thick iron door standing ajar.
“Pardon my intrusion!”
Inside, it was warm, unlike the sleet-laden air outside. The crackle of a hearth fire filled the space, and hides of monsters lay scattered across the floor.
And within the fortress, there was a single person.
Blunt-featured, with stubborn-looking brows, a hook fastened where his right hand should be, an eye patch covering one eye. Thick chest hair spilled from between the gaps of a worn-out, tattered shirt.
“Who’re you.”
Those were the man’s first words.
Simon answered with courtesy.
“I am Simon from Kizen.”
“What’s Kizen.”
Simon hesitated for a moment.
Throughout his time as a student, whenever he mentioned Kizen, people reacted with surprise or disbelief. This flat response was something new entirely.
“I’ve come on Neftis’s orders to meet the Northern Duke.”
The man smacked his lips. Even hearing Neftis’s name elicited no reaction.
‘The North truly is different.’
Northern Kalos’s isolation was partly geographical—news traveled slowly—but more fundamentally, its people were so consumed by survival that they gave not a moment’s thought to the outside world’s affairs.
Nobles who relied on rank alone and made a fuss often found themselves soundly beaten and expelled by northerners—a common tale.
This barren, monster-infested land obeyed only the logic of strength. Even noble royalty appeared to northern eyes as worthless garbage—too fat to run properly, not worth feeding.
The man looked Simon up and down with an expression of doubt, then picked up a duster.
“The Northern Duke isn’t a man of leisure. Unlikely you’ll meet him.”
“And who might you be?”
“I am Godric, steward of this castle.”
A steward? Him?
He looked every inch a warrior ready to charge into battle and crack goblin skulls with those robust forearms.
Though admittedly, gripping a sword with that hook would be difficult.
“When do you expect the Northern Duke to return?”
“He departed just now. He’ll be back by evening.”
“Would it be all right if I waited here until evening?”
Godric let out a heavy sigh.
“I won’t stop you from waiting, but he won’t see you even if you do.”
“I’ll wait.”
Simon settled into a nearby chair as he spoke. The butler Godric, as if to say “suit yourself,” departed to clean another window.
Since there seemed to be no atmosphere of hospitality to begin with, Simon simply waited in a daze.
Nothing but endless waiting.
After sitting on the hard chair for about two hours, his back had begun to ache. Simon rose from his seat to stretch, when—
‘Hmm?’
Through the window, he spotted a woman struggling to push a cart that had sunk into the muddy road.
The donkey pulling the cart was straining, but it was no use.
Simon slowly got to his feet.

* * *
“Thank you so much for your help!”
Simon summoned Skeletons to pull the cart free from the muddy road. The woman bowed repeatedly in gratitude.
“Of course I had to help.”
Simon spoke thus while studying her.
Northern women possessed considerable frames as well. Whether it was their bone structure or not, she was tall with broad shoulders and thick, muscular arms. She wore a long apron and had wrapped something white like a towel around her head.
She smiled warmly.
“You must be from outside, aren’t you?”
“Ah, yes. How could you tell?”
She made a gesture of wiping her hand down her own face from top to bottom.
“Your face is so clean—clearly a noble young man. In this part of town, they say a man without a beard looks like a girl, so everyone’s always going on about it.”
“……Haha.”
There was a reason this neighborhood was full of bearded men.
He should have brought a false beard along.
“I’m Grayson.”
“Simon Polentia.”
Simon walked alongside Grayson, exchanging various stories. Perhaps because he had helped her, she was the first person in the North to treat him with genuine warmth.
The cart carried milk. It seemed she and her father operated a reindeer farm somewhere nearby.
Simon, as if he’d been waiting for this, began asking her questions that had puzzled him.
“You want to earn the respect of Northern people?”
She fell silent in thought for a moment, then spoke.
“A beard?”
“……Other than that.”
“Hahaha! I was joking. Well, let me see. I was born and raised here, so I’ve always taken it for granted—it’s hard to explain to an outsider. Um, how do I put it…….”
She paused, thinking, then opened her mouth.
“Pride!”
“Pride?”
“Yes! All Northern people possess it.”
She raised her index finger.
“The Pride of Protection—that’s what we call it! I protect my land, my family, my territory! Even newborns are no exception. There’s a custom that a cradle, once used, is never replaced. Even a babe in arms must guard their domain—their cradle.”
Northern people do not flee.
For them, daily life is warfare, and daily life and battle are inseparable.
Even if they merely go to the riverbank to hang laundry, it happens frequently that they must draw the dagger at their hip and fight monsters. Slaying two or three monsters on the way home is the norm.
Had they refused to risk their lives at each perilous moment and instead fled, the North as it exists today would never have endured.
What has been entrusted to me, I defend with unwavering resolve. That duty has been passed down through tradition over long ages, and in the course of fulfilling it, it has blossomed into pride.
The Pride of Protection binds the Northern people together.
“Every single Northern person is respected as a Guardian, protecting one another. Those who would flee for fear of death, or who abandon what they must defend and leave—they’re branded as cowards. For warriors who risk their lives countless times daily for the sake of pride, outsiders who wander about for money, looking to see if there’s anything they can extract from the North, could never be viewed favorably.”
Simon nodded in understanding.
‘The Pride of Protection.’
He understood what it meant.
But how, as an outsider standing before them, could he prove his own Pride of Protection? Simon’s internal struggle deepened.

* * *
After parting ways with Grayson, Simon returned to the Northern Duke’s Castle.
An endless succession of waiting. Since the butler Godric showed no concern for whatever Simon did, Simon decided to wander through the castle and explore what he could.
Creak, creak—
The ancient castle sang with the sound of creaking floorboards with each step, the aged wood beneath groaning in chorus. From the worn and weathered state of the castle, one could gauge just how dire the North’s financial situation had become.
‘Hmm.’
As he wandered further, Simon discovered a wall lined entirely with portraits of the Northern Dukes throughout history.
They all had black hair, and their faces bore the harsh, weathered look of the north, marked by thick beards. Their sharp, hawk-like eyes were striking—the gaze of men who could command such an unrefined people.
‘I wonder if the Northern Duke’s face has that same quality?’
When he’d seen the Duke before, he’d been wearing a helmet, so Simon hadn’t caught a glimpse of his features. Now, wandering through the castle, he pushed open a door and stepped inside.
This was the Northern Duke’s office. It held no personal effects—only training equipment, weapons, and armor arranged in neat rows. Everything the Duke used.
The armor was uniform throughout: identical pieces of jet-black plate mail. It seemed he wore the same design every time.
Simon had just moved forward and begun examining a helmet when—
“Northern Duke! K-crisis! There’s a crisis!”
A frantic voice echoed from outside.
“What is it? The Northern Duke departed just hours ago.”
The steward Godric’s voice came next. Simon stepped out of the office to see a Messenger, snow piled on his head, gasping out his report.
“Banzdeil Territory is under attack! Estimating five hundred Undead at minimum! There are Named-class among them!”
“Five hundred?”
Godric’s jaw fell open.
“How could no one notice a force of that magnitude moving?”
“They must have taken a route we don’t know about. We need the Northern Duke and the Knight Order!”
“The Northern Duke left for Dondra only hours ago! Banzdeil is where his own relatives live. Issue an evacuation order immediately!”
“The people of Banzdeil won’t obey! They’ll fight, even if it means total annihilation!”
That was when—
“I’ll go.”
Both men’s heads snapped upward.
On the second-floor balcony, a blue-haired boy stood with his hand raised. The Messenger’s irritation flared.
“This is no place for a child—!”
“Even so, I’m a Necromancer from Kizen.”
Simon lifted the Northern Duke’s helmet he’d just retrieved, holding it above his head, then slowly lowered it onto his own.
It fit perfectly, as though it had always been his.
Whoosh!
In one motion, Simon leaped from the balcony and landed lightly on his feet.
The steward and Messenger flinched and stepped aside.
“I have a plan.”
Between the helmet’s slits, his eyes gleamed a steely blue-green.

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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