Once the armor and weapons were complete, the magic wind transformed into a large water sphere suspended in the air. With a wave of Norton's hand, the armor and weapons were plunged into the sphere. A sizzling sound followed, accompanied by a rise in steam, and the water sphere shrank significantly, marking the completion of the process.

When everything was finished, the armor, helmets, and weapons slowly descended and automatically fitted onto the robust skeletons of fourteen corpses. Norton then employed his limited, somewhat flawed necromancy—techniques he had half-learned from observing the animation of skeletal minions over the years—to reawaken these skeletal warriors.

The prolonged exertion depleted Norton's magical reserves significantly, prompting him to reflect on his inefficient use of magic. A more skilled necromancer would have achieved better results with a fraction of the energy he expended. This thought spurred Norton to anticipate furthering his studies—having mastered all his basic subjects with his tutor from age four to six, he was eager to learn more advanced techniques.

Nonetheless, the outcome was satisfactory. Using a few brief magical commands, Norton reignited the eerie phosphorescence in the empty eye sockets of the skeletons.

Standing up from the ground, they adjusted their limbs with a series of "clicks" and "clacks" before saluting Norton with a practiced gesture, forming a disciplined formation. The finely crafted equipment and orderly demeanor endowed them with a semblance of elite precision—though, regrettably, they were largely superficial displays.

Norton lacked the knowledge to create high-level undead, and even his basic necromancy was rudimentary. He merely pumped magic into the skeletons to animate them. Their strength, speed, and agility, due to the amount of magic Norton infused, might rival ordinary crypt guards.

However, these undead had no mastery of martial skills, team coordination, formations, or combat experience as crypt guards did. Those resembling wights couldn't perform any spells. It was akin to having high-tier hardware without the necessary operating system and software—impressive to look at, but not functional.

Even though he was a half-trained novice, Norton was quite pleased with the results. After inspecting his "elite" crypt guards, he noticed something amiss—their freshly forged equipment looked too new compared to the aged gear of the castle’s crypt guards.

"But that’s an easy fix." Norton hesitated briefly before snapping his fingers. "Scuffle amongst yourselves a bit, but don’t hit too hard—just enough to give your armor a few dents and scratches."

Upon receiving the order, the fourteen newly forged crypt guards began to spar, using their halberds, swords, and shields to create superficial damage. Under Norton's direction, they dusted themselves with dirt. After a few minutes, they appeared just as worn as their predecessors.

"Very good, but not perfect—"

At this, Norton signaled them to stop, ordering the crypt guards to assume positions around him like their predecessors had. Satisfied, he moved into the next chamber.

Bones littered the ground.

As Norton had expected, this was another burial chamber for sacrificial victims. Unlike the previous chamber, where warriors had willingly followed their lord in death, this burial space encapsulated the remains of slaves, slaughtered and buried with the deceased.

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Thousands of human skeletons lay there, some dismembered, others bearing signs of decapitation or dismemberment. Some skeletons had remnants of ropes, suggesting they were bound in life—there was male and female, young and decrepit alike.

At age four, Norton's foundational education began, encompassing not just language and general knowledge but basic necromancy and dark arts. Thanks to this, Norton's bone identification skills surpassed most medical professionals.

He could discern each skeleton's age, gender, cause of death, even personal habits and professions… weaving stories from each one. Initially, Norton found this intriguing, but eventually, he realized it was driving him to the brink of madness.

He abruptly understood what he was doing—organizing an army of the dead, composed of bones, souls, and undead entities. These things were terrifying, sinister, and despair-inducing. Prolonged exposure would inevitably affect one’s psyche, deteriorating mental well-being.

Norton thus comprehended why some necromancers went mad and why vampires highly valued their kin—it was sheer madness. From an outsider's perspective, the undead army might seem impressive, even exciting, but in reality, as Norton pondered the miserable skeletons and what he was about to do, he could clearly articulate:

“No, this isn’t good at all.”

Of course, it wasn't wholly disastrous. Norton's sister had once passed on a philosophical question from her studies:

“A living army that might soon die, or an army already composed of the dead—which is more tragic?”

“I don’t know, it depends,” Norton shrugged, earning a pillow thrown at him by his sister.

“Wrong, dummy—Sally would laugh if I answered like that—think harder!”

“Someone who asks her younger brother for homework help shouldn’t call me a dummy!”

And so it went. Such metaphysical inquiries could wait for idle moments. For now, Norton focused on feeling content—just being content.

Indeed, he had received an extraordinary gift for establishing himself in this world—a full skeletal legion. What could possibly be more satisfying?

Thus, Norton laughed—softly at first, then louder, until he roared with laughter amidst the countless bones. This laughter signified his farewell to the human self he once was. From today onward, he was Norton von Carstein, heir of the Carstein family, lord of Sylvania, and brother to Juana von Carstein.

A necromancer and vampire lord.

When the somewhat hysterical laughter ceased, Norton shook his head, lifted his hand, and gathered the magic wind. As his hand rose, the wind intensified, enveloping him in pale luminescence, while the skeletons began to stir. Those with broken spines reattached them, those with missing limbs were aided by others, and those without heads repositioned them. The magic wind erased their scars, making them appear anew.

Affected by the pale glow, these millennia-old bones reanimated through the ominous power of necromancy, rising once more as the caster’s thralls. Extending their blasphemously reanimated limbs, they emerged once more as sorrowful lower undead. This spell, cruder than the meticulous craftsmanship of the fourteen crypt guards, allowed Norton’s magic reserves to sustain them.

“Clear out those things,” Norton commanded, his eyes glimmering with red arcane light, focusing intensely to control these skeletal soldiers and immediately determining their number—11,221 in total.

However, over a thousand were diminutive and juvenile, and another thousand had degraded elderly remains. Nearly 10,000 were usable adult skeletons. Norton directed these robust male and female skeletons to transport the remains of over a thousand others and the rusted yet valuable black iron weapons back to his hidden camp.

With the traps and mechanisms already triggered on his path, Norton proceeded without much caution. The only point of concern was the flip trap that had previously caught him off guard.

Norton instructed the undead to pass through, the trap remaining inactive for the lifeless skeletons as before. Once the skeleton soldiers had crossed, Norton levitated safely over the trap.

Thus, Norton spent a fulfilling night. Under the red moon Morell’s influence, this young vampire, undetected by most, leveraged his situation to secure the foundation for an undead legion and numerous other benefits.

He led the fourteen new crypt guards back home. As for the skeletal wolves, being unlisted in the official military roster, no one paid much attention to their number. Norton was confident that two fewer skeletal wolves would not raise any issues.