My Life as A Death Guard

Barbarus, Southern Swamp, Diderot Mountains.

Xenos Overlord Desley stood by his workbench, deep in thought.

His conversion experiment had just abruptly failed.

On the workbench, the seemingly haphazardly cut low level corpse pieces were quietly arranged in a specific order, coarsely sewn together with thick black thread.

Some yellowish-black pus slowly oozed from the wounds.

Yes, Overlord Desley was in the process of creating a high-level puppet. Generally speaking, whether low-level or high-level, puppets were pieced together from the corpses of the strong low level beings.

The only difference lay in the level of psychic sorcery applied to them.

Creating high-level puppets consumed a lot of psychic energy.

At Desley’s level, making one high-level puppet would leave him weak for a while.

But if it were Barbarus’ true master, the high Overlord Necare, that guy could raise his hand and instantly create a dozen high-level puppets.

Although Desley could also raise his hand to create a dozen low-level puppets, the gap between low-level and high-level puppets was insurmountable.

These mass-produced low-level puppets were only capable of fighting, unlike the high-level puppets, which could organize tactics, use simple psychic powers, and command lower-level puppets.

Moreover, the combat power of a high-level puppet was several times that of a low-level one.

However, up to this point, Overlord Desley had adhered to the principle of “strength in numbers,” valuing quantity over quality.

As long as he had enough low-level puppets, he believed he could overwhelm any high-level puppet.

Indeed, the southern lords favored the simple-to-create puppets.

Some also tamed other creatures, but only those with ample territory had the luxury of alternatives beyond puppets.

Desley, for instance, had previously used sheer numbers to overwhelm several nearby small overlords and subsequently raised numerous filthy hounds.

But now, none of it worked anymore.

Desley gritted his teeth in frustration.

Since the arrival of the northern Death Guard and that scythe-wielding creature roaming at night, harvesting the low level beings had become increasingly difficult.

At first, they thought nighttime village raids would merely become more complicated.

Initially, this was the case.

The Death Guard, led by Typhon, actively organized night defenses in various villages.

However, they overlooked the figure wandering the toxic mist just like them.

What was going on?! That guy was clearly just a low level being, not a psychic hybrid like Calas Typhon.

He was just a tall, sturdy low level being! How was he slaughtering those small overlords?

No overlords knew, for those involved were already dead.

That guy, wielding a scythe, silently emerged from the toxic mist and beheaded the Xenos Overlords who ventured down to hunt.

Desley felt somewhat relieved that he never descended to hunt himself, but his slaver teams suffered heavy losses, nearly a hundred puppets perishing in a few hunts.

—No, it couldn’t be. If he went down, he’d surely kill that damned bastard.

That lowly low level being!!!

Despite his words, Xenos Overlord Desley had since remained quietly within his territory.

Reports of Xenos Overlords being killed within their territories kept coming in.

To say he wasn’t worried would be a lie.

But the path to hunt the low level beings below was blocked.

Any slaver team sent down faced the same fate of being slaughtered.

Without materials to make puppets, Desley couldn’t continue his strategy of overwhelming numbers.

So, Overlord Desley had no choice but to attempt creating high-level puppets.

However, his first attempt had just failed.

It felt as if Desley had suddenly been cut off from his connection to the heavens.

Desley stood by his workbench, deep in thought, while the other experimental apparatuses in the room hummed with activity.

The roar of the steam engine and the creak of mechanical arms filled the room.

A figure slowly emerged from the shadows at the doorway, their face obscured by a gas mask, making it impossible to discern their true identity.

The shadowy figure was about three meters away from Desley, who was still standing by his workbench, unaware and facing away from the door.

Desley believed that if there was an attack, his puppets and filthy hounds would have already started to stir.

However, he miscalculated—

In an instant, it felt as though someone had suddenly and tightly gripped his throat.