Chapter 94: Lifespan
After withdrawing from the spiritual space, Charles glanced at the scepter crystal resting against his chest. He casually set it aside, then stood and stepped out of the tent.
Night had fully fallen. The stars were veiled behind thick clouds and hard to make out, while the blood-red comet hung conspicuously in the sky, quietly mirroring the hazy moon.
The camp should have been settled into silence by now, yet for some reason it was unusually noisy. A quick look around revealed far more soldiers than before.
"Lord Eddard is paying a visit," an attendant explained softly when he saw Charles emerge.
Charles looked over, and Eddard Stark came into view along with several unfamiliar figures.
Then came an overly courteous greeting.
"It is an honor to meet you, Ser Cranston."
Charles studied the red-bearded noble he had never met before, then turned his gaze toward Stark.
"These two are the lords of the Riverlands and Riverrun," Eddard explained with slight hesitation. "Edmure Tully and Brynden Tully. They've come because…"
"We have come to ask for your help," Brynden Tully cut in smoothly, his tone direct yet sincere. "We hope you can save Lord Hoster, who is currently suffering greatly from illness."
Edmure, the red-bearded one, quickly added, "Of course, we won't ask you to do this for nothing. We've brought several large chests of jewels. And if that's not satisfactory, we can offer something else."
Brynden's eyelid twitched at his nephew's words.
That sounded far too much like haggling with a merchant. If this sorcerer had no interest in wealth, such phrasing could easily offend him.
He stole a cautious glance at Charles. Seeing no displeasure on his face, Brynden finally let out a silent breath of relief.
Charles himself wasn't offended—but neither was he particularly interested.
If he remembered correctly, the "old Lord" they referred to was the same father-in-law Eddard had mentioned back in King's Landing. Charles had refused at the time, and Eddard hadn't pressed the matter further. Judging by the current situation, however, his growing reputation had clearly reignited the Tullys' hopes.
From the faintly awkward look on Stark's face, it was obvious he hadn't expected this either. Still, the fact that the two lords had come in person in the dead of night—with chests of treasure in tow—did at least speak to their sincerity.
But what use was treasure to him?
The chest of gold dragons he had extorted from the Lannisters earlier remained completely untouched, gathering dust in the corner of his tent. He had no idea when—if ever—it would be useful.
Charles had even considered melting it all down and exchanging it for money back in the main world, but then realized he didn't really need money there either. Doing so would be nothing but a waste of time.
This visit, frankly, felt like another waste of time—especially in the middle of the night.
Still, after glancing at the slightly embarrassed Stark, Charles reconsidered and chose not to refuse outright.
Not because he cared to curry favor with the lords of Riverrun—though they were among the most powerful nobles in Westeros—but because his situation was very different from when he first arrived in this world. He no longer needed to actively cultivate alliances.
What interested him was magic.
Since absorbing souls in King's Landing, he had been constantly on the move, surrounded by soldiers, with no real enemies on whom to test what he had learned.
The knowledge itself was already etched into his mind, but the actual effects of his spells remained uncertain—especially the mutations displayed within the Death Authority.
Unlike fully mastered abilities, those so-called mutations were impossible to understand without experimentation.
And this request, inconvenient as it was, might just provide the perfect opportunity.
After returning to this world, Charles had been preoccupied with repairing his Ghost Mask and hadn't had the time to deal with anything else.
In that sense, their arrival was impeccably timed.
He spoke calmly, "I can't guarantee the outcome. I can only try—but there must be a price."
"Of course. We understand that already," said Brynden at once, nodding repeatedly. He then lowered his voice and gestured to the attendants behind him.
"Bring that damned bastard here."
The attendants obeyed. Before long, they dragged over a middle-aged man whose hands were tightly bound.
"Rape, murder, home invasion…" Brynden said coldly, disgust written all over his face. "He committed countless crimes in Riverrun. You need show him no mercy."
The prisoner burst into laughter. "You stupid fish, you missed one. I also killed Riverrun's captain of the guard. What—too embarrassed to say it?"
Despite his swollen, bruised face, the man remained arrogant, clearly accepting every accusation.
Charles said nothing more and turned to Eddard.
"Clear a tent. Bring both him and the Lord inside."
"May I go in?" asked Edmure, the red-bearded heir.
"No."
Edmure immediately fell silent.
Though he was the Lord's heir, Edmure dared not put on airs before this "battle-hardened" and mysterious sorcerer. After all, even Cersei—the queen regent of the Seven Kingdoms—had been utterly toyed with by this man. Besides, they were the ones asking for help.
Everything proceeded according to Charles's instructions. Under the direct supervision of the highest command, preparations were completed with astonishing speed. Five minutes later, everything was ready.
As the unconscious old Lord was carried into the tent on a stretcher, Charles followed inside.
He glanced around briefly, then sat down at the table and began writing runes.
This time, he had no intention of performing any elaborate ritual. Blood for blood transferred one person's vitality to another—but Charles now possessed something far simpler.
Life Drain.
This newly advanced spell required no ritual at all. It could be cast with a single hand, extracting life force from the target and allowing the caster to either absorb it or bestow it upon someone else, entirely at their discretion.
Like all necromantic magic, it was cruel and grotesque.
But for someone like this man, Charles felt not the slightest trace of pity.
"Bastard wizard," the prisoner spat, laughing wildly as he was bound to the ground. "If I ever get the chance, I'll castrate you—roast it and eat it! Hahaha!"
He appeared unbothered, yet deep in his eyes lurked unmistakable fear.
For some people, death itself wasn't terrifying. What they truly feared was not being allowed to rest after dying.
And Charles was precisely the sort of existence who could make someone "die—and live again."
Even though information spread slowly in medieval times, the Northern army had passed through Riverrun. Rumors alone ensured that this man knew exactly who Charles was.
Ignoring the prisoner's taunts, Charles finished inscribing the runes, activated them on his palm, and stepped forward. Just as he was about to cast the spell, he paused, then casually stuffed a rag into the prisoner's mouth.
Under the man's forced calm, Charles crouched down. His palm—covered in black runes—pressed against the prisoner's brown-haired head.
The touch was warm, even gentle. Yet despite everything he had endured in life, the thought of the unknown fate awaiting him made the man whimper uncontrollably behind the gag, his muffled sounds filled with panic.
When a low, ominous chant emerged, the struggling stopped.
The prisoner began to tremble. The arrogance in his eyes faded, replaced by naked unease.
No matter how bold someone was, the unknown always inspired fear.
But soon, even that fear vanished.
The hand on his head radiated warmth—like a fireplace in the depths of winter. Drowsiness washed over him. His vision blurred.
It doesn't hurt at all… damn, scared me for nothing.
Relief flickered through his mind.
Then darkness swallowed him whole.
Unfortunately, his relief came far too soon.
---
[You have activated Life Drain. Target: Harleen.]
[Under the Authority of Death, your spell has mutated.]
As the incantation echoed, the Eye of Reality's notifications drifted across Charles's vision.
Before his eyes, the man's face rapidly withered. His skin shriveled and creased, his once-oily brown hair turned gray, his spine slowly bent.
By the time Charles withdrew his hand, the once-vigorous middle-aged man had become a frail, decrepit elder.
Wrinkled eyelids struggled open. Clouded eyes glanced weakly at Charles before slowly closing again, exhausted beyond measure.
Charles instinctively looked down at his own hand.
A faint, pale-green aura coiled around it.
The Eye provided its verdict.
[Fifty years of lifespan from Harleen.]
[It can restore youth to another.]
[Warning: Using it will also transfer side effects—mild asthma and severe heart disease.]
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