Chapter 45 | Reincarnated as a Necromancer, I Turned a Death Desert Into Paradise

In an office within the First Prince's mansion in Aurelian, the capital of the Empire.

The room was about twenty paces square, its four walls clad in dark wood panels, with only a narrow, south-facing window letting in a sliver of light.

Stacks of documents, various parchment scrolls, and manuscripts of different sizes lay scattered across the floor. The bookshelves in the corner were already packed to the brim, leaving only a few unclassified dossiers piled haphazardly on the floor.

A desk stood near the window, upon which a massive blueprint for a water conservancy project was spread out, its ink still wet.

The author of this ink was currently hunched over the desk, his back deeply arched, his neck craned forward at an almost sickly angle. His slender fingers held a dip pen, rapidly jotting down annotations in the margins of the pages.

Virgil Seraphius, the man known as First Prince Valery's left hand.

He appeared to be in his thirties, with gray eyes, high cheekbones, and a deep vertical furrow between his brows. His short, brownish-brown hair was already turning white at the temples. Combined with his gaunt cheeks and a short, neatly trimmed goatee on his chin, he looked somewhat older than his actual age.

He wore a clean, light-blue linen tunic. Pinned to his collar was a golden badge shaped like an eye—the highest certification badge of the Imperial High Academy, held by no more than twenty people in the entire Empire.

As his pen glided across the paper, he paused briefly to glance at a nearby invoice. Drawing a line under the quote for a pipe, he annotated in small letters: “12% increase from last month. Suggest changing suppliers.” His handwriting was neat yet somewhat rigid, but incredibly precise.

He double-checked the figures, and once satisfied there were no errors, he prepared to move on to the next...

“Virgil!”

With a dull thud as the door slammed against the wall, the entrance to the room was rudely flung open. Yet Virgil did not flinch, his body remaining perfectly still without even a tremor.

His eyes remained fixed on the blueprint, and his pen did not stop, for he knew exactly who the intruder was.

“Virgil, my friend, why are you still cooped up in here?”

The newcomer's voice was booming but not grating. He carried with him an aura of sunshine and dust, instantly making him likable.

But for Virgil, this was not the case. No matter how pleasant a voice was, it lost its charm after more than a decade of listening, especially when its owner showed up during his busiest hours.

Still, Virgil showed no sign of impatience. After writing down another annotation, he replied in his usual unhurried tone, “The Third Imperial Princess has been away from the Imperial Capital for over two months, and His Highness has gone south, having been away for twenty-three days.”

“In these twenty-three days, the Water Conservancy Department has sent four budget amendments, the Quartermaster Department has reported three batches of provisions lost, and the Finance Ministry's preliminary data for the annual final accounts alone has piled up this high.”

Virgil gestured toward the stack of documents on his desk before finally turning his exhausted eyes—ringed with dark circles—toward the newcomer. “Olaid Erhart, if you are bored, you can go to the stables and take a few laps on a horse. The door is to your left.”

The man called Olaid had no intention of leaving. As Valery's right hand, he certainly hadn't come just to make trouble.

He took a step forward, squeezing his muscular frame of over one hundred and ninety centimeters into the room, showing no intention of departing.

Under the limited light of the room, his sharp, chiseled facial features were clearly visible—high cheekbones, a square jaw, and wheat-colored skin earned from years under the sun. He looked lively and cheerful, a stark contrast to Virgil.

There was a faint old scar near his left temple, a mark left by an arrow he had blocked at the age of twenty-five to protect the First Prince.

His lower lip was slightly thick, and his mouth usually curved downward in a stern expression, but now that he was smiling, he looked much softer.

Olaid walked over to the desk and placed the object in his hand heavily upon Virgil's desk with a dull thud.

Virgil's brow furrowed slightly as he shifted his gaze from Olaid's face to the desk, looking at what he had brought.

“The kitchen staff said you haven't eaten all day.”

Olaid propped his hands on the edge of the desk and leaned in closer, a hint of mystery in his silver-gray eyes. “I happened to get my hands on some of this, so I had the kitchen whip up a batch for you to try.”

A warm aroma drifted over, carrying a subtle, savory scent.

Virgil looked at the bean soup on the desk. White steam was still rising from the rim of the bowl. The broth appeared slightly cloudy, with several plump beans floating up and down within it.

It looked quite ordinary, but the kitchen's preparation made it seem appetizing.

After glancing at the bean soup, Virgil turned his gaze back to Olaid.

By now, Olaid had changed his posture. He was half-squatting beside the desk, hands crossed upon it, his chin resting on the back of his hands. He stared at Virgil with intense anticipation, looking exactly like a large dog that had just brought its prey back to the den.

Virgil sighed inwardly. He knew his old friend's tricks all too well; the guy pulled this exact routine every time he needed a favor.

He still remembered the last time, when Olaid had asked to borrow his academic robes to woo a female lecturer from the Academy of Alchemy.

And the time before that, when Olaid had begged him to write a “reasonable military equipment wear-and-tear report” for the Finance Ministry.

They were all trivial matters, so he had never refused.

He wondered what it was this time.

Virgil picked up the bean soup, stirred it gently with the spoon, blew on it as he took in the mild aroma, and then took a careful sip.

The soup was warm upon entering his mouth. He could immediately taste the chef's excellent skill; not only was there no raw bean flavor at all, but there was also a savory, broth-like richness to it.

Biting into a bean, the skin was slightly chewy, but once bitten open, the inside was soft and tender without being sticky. Chewing it gave a very satisfying, hearty sensation.

Excellent quality beans.

Virgil immediately made his assessment, then scooped another spoonful into his mouth. As he chewed slowly, he looked up at Olaid, preparing to ask what favor he wanted this time.

But in the next second, he froze.

For he felt a refreshing coolness rising from his stomach, flowing through his entire body from the inside out. The soreness in his neck and shoulders from days of hunching over his desk dissipated slightly, and his mind cleared instantly.

Swallowing the soup, Virgil looked at Olaid and saw him wearing a smug, self-satisfied expression. Virgil immediately realized that Olaid might not be asking for a favor this time.

“These beans...”

Virgil set down the bowl of soup and looked at Olaid, asking in a low voice, as if confirming something of grave importance, “Where did they come from?”