3x Cloning System: The Fleshmancer's Undead Army is full of Heroes-Chapter 42: Professional Liar

"What are you yelling for, Hero?" Clayton answered back. "This sword is not mine. I simply disarmed an undead man."

"And the undead man stabbed you?" The woman asked.

"Oh," He looked down at his chest, and was reminded that there was a big, gaping hole in his armor where Arlene had stabbed him. "Yes indeed I was stabbed, but I’m still standing, am I not? I came here to have a drink, and perhaps leave the sword in the hands of the Inn Keeper. There are no guards here, no sense of security whatsoever, so we have to work with what we got, don’t we?"

The Inn Keeper looked at Clayton, his head poking up behind the three unfamiliar faces. He had a strong imprint of confusion on his face.

Clayton looked at him, and although his face was unchanging, he silently pleaded the Inn Keeper to play along, as he didn’t know what else to do. He tried his best to keep Arlene safe, and not pin the blame on her, despite the fact that she attacked him thrice intentionally, and a few times unintentionally. He believed she deserved a break, a good day for once in her life, because he was quite aware of how much the alternative stung.

The horse merchant, fighting past the beginning stages of his drunkness, noticed what was going on, and stood up hastily.

"Don’t attack our guest, you dumb Heroes," He raised his voice, "He’s a wealthy farmer from the city, and he can buy your mothers and sisters if he wanted to!"

The heroes shared a horrid look across their faces, that could easily be confused with constipation. They didn’t know how to react.

"I do not intend to buy people, but thank you, Thomas," He said.

At last, the Heroes found an appropriate thing to say, though their bodies were still tense. They swallowed their pride, and ignored the gems on their own armor symbolizing their rank, as to accommodate the ’farmer’.

"Are there more of the undead?" One of the two men asked, with his sword drawn out. "Tell us where you saw them, and we’ll make sure they don’t bother any of the villagers!"

"There aren’t any more of them," He said.

Afterwards, he tossed the rusty sword to the heroes. One of them caught it, and half-mindedly gave it to the Inn Keeper.

"A corpse rose from the fields," He said, and then started walking forward, "I assume he was an Ancient Hero, uncomfortable with his final resting place. Only the Gods know how he died, but since the farmers haven’t desecrated an ancient burial ground, hopefully? We have to assume that the corpse wasn’t satisfied with his final resting place."

The Heroes were confused. They did not like the idea of bending the knee, metaphorically, to a farmer, and now they had to tackle the fact that they were dealing with an educated farmer. They knew that he wasn’t wrong, but the gears in their heads couldn’t help them recall the behavioral patterns of the Ancient Heroes, so they had nothing to add. They were used to dealing with less prolific undead people, and that knowledge, although nearly useless, was crystallized in their heads.

At last, one of the heroes swallowed what was left of his pride, and added, "Thank you for dealing with the corpse. May we buy you a beer?"

"Of course," He nodded, and had already sat down at this point.

Clayton was proud of himself. Killing Heroes was fun, he knew it was, but confusing them beyond bounds was fun as well. He was proud that he could craft such an elaborate lie on the spot, and was happy that all the studying he did over the years, did not in fact go to waste.

[Smooth work.]

’Thank you,’ He answered silently, ’Heroes will never have my respect. They’re buffoons, and I’d sooner respect a shit scooper.’

The Inn Keeper passed a beer to him, and then went to get another stool as one of the Heroes remained on his feet just to accommodate Clayton. The Inn Keeper avoided eye contact, as regardless of how sharp he usually was, the few beers he chucked down today made him rather slow, and he needed more time to process everything that was going on.

The room was quiet. Clayton sipped his beer, and other than his sipping, they could hear Rufus snore, as if he was the cricket in the ordeal. Granted, he was a big, and loud cricket.

At last, the woman asked, "I find it interesting that you wear a Hero’s armor. So I must ask, if you don’t mind, are you a farmer, or a hero? I never heard of anyone who was both, as farmers who ascend in ranks destroy every relation they had to their life before Herodom."

"My father died a few months ago, and so I had to take over the farm after I ascended." He was quick to form a lie that could not be considered white anymore, blue maybe, but not white, "Mind you, he passed down whole chests of gems to me, so how could I have refused?"

The woman bought it, the story checked out. However, the man who was still on his feet, noticed that the back of Clayton’s armor was also bloody.

Taking a few steps backwards, he saw the gaping hole through the back of his armor, which was clearly parallel with the hole at the front of his armor. Even though he was one beer deep, he could still tell that something was wrong, so he silently waved at his friend, pointing at Clayton’s back.

The woman, confused, instantly sunk into shock as she saw the hole in his armor. She could feel it in her gut that something was off about this stoic, bald man.

"What are you?" She asked directly, as a helpless look spread through her face like the plague.

"I’m a mere man," He answered, unsure of what she meant.

As he took a sip of his beer, he felt a sharp, painful impact at the back of his neck.