Overlord: Welcome the Birth of the King Chapter 83: The Grand Cemetery – Intelligence and Countermea

The city of E-Rantel was surrounded by three concentric walls. Within the outermost wall, occupying roughly a quarter of the western sector, lay an enormous expanse.

The Grand Cetery.

As a fortress city on the frontlines, E-Rantel had long borne witness to the brutal conflict between the Re-Estize Kingdom and the Baharuth Empire. Year after year, the wars left countless soldiers dead.

Despite the many rumors surrounding the birth of the undead, no concrete proof had ever surfaced. The true thod of their ergence remained a mystery. However, one common belief endured: when soone died, especially under violent or unresolved circumstances, their chances of turning into an undead increased significantly—particularly if they died alone, with no one to mourn them.

As such, both the Empire and the Kingdom had long since agreed to a warti accord: all the fallen would be given proper mourning rites. This sprawling cetery was built for exactly that purpose.

Under the dim blanket of night, a lone shadow moved swiftly yet silently toward the cetery.

As he approached, the air grew heavier, the silence more profound. Even during daylight, few dared co near this place—let alone at night.

From a distance, Lyle could already make out the outline of the surrounding stone wall—about four ters tall—encircling the entire cetery like a protective barrier.

He raised his head slightly.

On the bridge of his nose rested a single-lens monocle, a magical item he had specifically purchased. Its enchantnt granted night vision, allowing him to see clearly even in the current veil of darkness.

The wall ahead looked tall and formidable—not for the sake of protecting the cetery, but rather, to contain whatever might rise from within.

As he drew closer, two softly glowing watchtowers erged from the gloom. Between them stood a massive, tightly sealed iron gate.

Obviously, the main entrance was locked at this hour. Ard guards patrolled the towers, and Lyle could just make out the silhouettes of a few more figures.

Adventurers.

The Adventurer's Guild, in coordination with the city's officials, maintained a rotating team stationed here. Their primary task was to handle any undead that appeared within the cetery grounds.

"Well, looks like I'll need to find another way in," Lyle muttered to himself, halting for a brief mont before heading away from the gate, skirting along the edge of the wall.

Soon, he stopped beneath a quieter, less-patrolled section of the wall. It was just as tall, its surface smooth and solid.

For ordinary undead, this would be an effective deterrent. But for Lyle?

Not even close.

He crouched low, muscles tensing, and then launched himself upward.

He soared nearly three ters before flipping a mithril dagger into his palm. With practiced ease, he drove the blade into the wall, anchoring himself mid-air.

Twisting his wrist, he propelled himself upward again. As his foot reached the level of the embedded dagger, he flicked it free and caught it with the sa motion.

In a flash, he was perched atop the wall. A quiet vault later, and Lyle had entered the Grand Cetery.

The first thing that greeted him was a field of tombstones—rows upon rows stretching into the gloom. Wind rustled through the skeletal branches of dead trees, creating a faint, eerie rustling like whispers from the grave.

Within each plot stood small wooden shrines, barely a ter tall. In the darkness, their elongated shadows distorted the landscape, creating an atmosphere steeped in silent dread.

But Lyle's face remained unreadable.

Back in his previous world, ghosts didn't exist. Yet many still feared them. It wasn't the creature itself—it was the fear of the unknown.

Here, though?

Ghosts were real. Though more accurately, they were referred to as wraiths.

So how did one deal with a wraith?

Lyle's lips curled into a smirk. "Simple," he muttered, stepping forward. "You kill it."

As he ventured deeper into the graveyard, the tombstones thickened, and the trees lood taller. The shadows grew more oppressive.

He remained alert, scanning his surroundings, cross-referencing them with the information stored in his mory.

If he rembered correctly, Khajit—a necromancer and one of the main antagonists—was hidden within an underground temple deep inside this very cetery. In the ga's storyline, Khajit had already been lurking here for five years, silently gathering negative energy.

At present, that would make it one year since he first infiltrated the city.

A graveyard at night offered the perfect environnt for a necromancer like Khajit. It was his domain, a place teeming with residual death. But dayti was different. During the day, guards and adventurers conducted regular patrols, and any disturbance would prompt imdiate investigation.

At night, however...

As long as there wasn't a full-scale undead outbreak, neither the soldiers nor adventurers would dare enter. Instead, they'd wait until morning to assess the damage.

Khajit's strength lay in his control of the field.

But Lyle's advantage?

Information.

Among Khajit's arsenal, the creature Lyle considered the greatest threat was the Skeletal dragon.

Although only level 16, this undead beast possessed immunity to all magic of sixth tier or lower—a terrifying trait for most magic casters in this world.

Even the Fla Archangel's divine fire attacks would be rendered ineffective.

Worse yet, the creature's sheer size gave it power far beyond what its level suggested. The bone dragon was a walking catastrophe.

Fortunately, according to the tiline, Khajit hadn't yet amassed enough negative energy to summon even one. In the ga, it took him five years to call forth two.

Still, Lyle wasn't the type to gamble.

Of the ten Fla Archangel he had prepared, two were assigned specifically for dragon containnt. He didn't need them to win—only to stall.

Silence blanketed the deeper reaches of the cetery. Now and then, faint bluish lights flitted between the trees—like spectral lanterns bobbing in the darkness.

Roughly a hundred ters ahead stood a ruined structure.

A shrine.

About three ters tall, it featured a pointed spire and crumbling stone columns. The centuries had not been kind—it was worn, damaged, and hollow.

Lyle stopped just outside its range, tilting his head as he surveyed the surroundings.

Under the pale moonlight, movent stirred.

From the shadows of the trees, shapes began to erge—shuffling toward him.

At the sa ti, guttural snarls filled the air.

A wave of stench followed: putrid, rotting, and unmistakably undead.

Zombies.

Rotting, hollow-eyed corpses began stumbling into view.

Lyle didn't flinch. With a flick of his wrist, he summoned a Tier-2 spell scroll from his inventory.

He crushed it.

Fwshhh!

A beam of holy light erupted, and in the blink of an eye, a Guardian Angel materialized from the burst.

As the radiant figure hovered above the ground, its golden wings aglow, the undead's pace imdiately quickened. Their snarls grew louder, their shuffles turned into stampedes.

CRASH!

One of them—a half-decayed male—burst through a dead tree to Lyle's left. Through the monocle's enhanced night vision, Lyle could even see maggots squirming beneath the thing's rotting skin.

"Lead them away," Lyle commanded calmly.

The Guardian Angel unfurled its wings with a snap, then took off into the night.

As it soared, the undead—driven mad by the scent of divinity—abandoned Lyle and gave chase.

To them, the angel's presence was like a bonfire in the dark, while Lyle's living soul was rely a al on a plate.

Still hidden, Lyle observed the shrine. No movent. No disturbances.

He waited.

Seven minutes passed. Maybe eight.

The cetery had grown quiet once more. The undead had followed the angel far into the distance.

"Phase two," he whispered with a slight smile.

With a dramatic sweep, Lyle revealed two more spell scrolls—each bearing the glyph of Tier-2: Angel Summoning.

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