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Mortuarius - Chapter IV

The flame disappears before his eyes. Adler snaps his fingers quietly, the flame returning as soon as the movement is complete. The small void dances over his fingertip, devoid of the characteristic crackles of fire. He gets his other finger closer, and the flame smoothly passes on. Adler repeats that action time and time again, marveling at the feeling. It feels like silk gliding across skin.

Or, at least, that's how he remembers the sensation.

The important, yet dull monologues of his colleagues fall deaf on his ears. Divisions, emplacements, mine fields, assault groups… discoveries of the recent, so-called "war games" rouse the younger commanders, dressed in clean, pressed, black uniforms. Despite their positions, they seldom wear armor. He sighs at this image. Some of his fellows, as time-worn as him, call this the collapse. The collapse of tradition, the collapse of old morality. Even of the old world. Although he would disagree with this nihilistic perspective, the reality doesn't elude him.

Old guard. Those words resonate within his soul ever since he first heard them. That's what the new bones call him and his peers. No longer do they look at him as a shining example, the main display of Umbra's military prowess. Now, they see him as a rather dated decoration, an old yet charming vase. He's still seen as a source of general knowledge, but he's not perceived as the leader he was before. Not anymore.

Adler sighs. Where did he go wrong? Is it even his fault, or rather - the inevitable advance of warfare?

"Lord General?"

The voice brings him back to reality. He swiftly extinguishes the flame, and looks back at the table. Almost every skeleton is looking at him, their eyes flickering with excitement and expectation. The officer that asked the question, whose name Adler couldn't remember to save his unlife, is pointing at a set of intricate wooden carvings of Legionaries and Rankmen, placed over a bridge.

"Lord General…?" The man asks him again, fully snapping him back.

"Yes." Adler clears his throat. "I see your point, and I can get behind it."

The commandant, seemingly satisfied with the answer, turns back to the table.

Although he can very well grasp and understand the idea of artillery and gunpowder weapons, he can't comprehend the change these two brought. Suddenly, large regiments of melee troops were "undesirable", "risky". Heavy cavalry, so favored by Adler, was labeled as "pointless" and "too expensive to remain effective". Seemingly overnight his entire concept of warfare has been flipped on its head.

He still doesn't see anything wrong with a good shock cavalry charge. The roar of a hundred hooves, the clouds of dust brought up behind the terrifying echelon of bone, armor and pointed lances… Yes! He still remembers it vividly from his time commanding the troops in the War of Vengeance. There's no amount of divine help that can save a man impaled halfway on a three meter lance.

Adler smiles and the black flame on his fingertips shakes as memories of violence come back to him. He remembers his formation tearing into the line of armored infantry during the battle for the capital, lances punching through shields and the men wielding them as if they were nothing but paper. He recalls discarding his weapon and drawing the axe, cracking helmets and skulls from the top of his undead mount.

The sounds of screams, the sight of bodies crushed underneath the stampede of skeletal horses and the enemies routing in panic fill his mind. Too immersed in thought, Adler pays no attention to either the officers slowly leaving the room, nor the servant cleaning the table. His running thoughts are interrupted when a familiar figure sits on the opposite side of the table. He raises his head to meet Watcher's gaze. The other undead smirks.

"Reminiscing old times, are you?" The liche crosses his arms over his robed ribcage.

"Hm." Adler hums in response, putting out the black flame with a flick of his wrist. "There's nothing wrong with going back to the better days."

"That's all you have been doing recently, hasn't it?"

The general scoffs. Watcher glances at his watch, and quickly straightens his gowns.

"At least try to look presentable. They should be here any second now."

Adler fondles his armor piece by piece, making sure everything is properly attached. The proper meeting was about to begin - it was in his best interest to show himself from the best angle, especially due to the caliber of individuals that would attend the meeting.

And, of course, only a fool would look sloppy in front of any of the Death Knights. Let alone three of them.

Right as the door opened, both skeletons jumped to their feet, their ornate chair scraping the floor loudly as they stood up.

Three figures emerged from behind the wooden barrier. Adler didn't have to see to recognise the first character - the stench of rotting flesh and decay was so strong that it transcended mortal senses, making his very soul shiver in disgust. Plague came in with his more formal attire - out of all of his fellow Death Knights he was the one that favored variety of the wardrobe the most. Instead of his armor, a black frock coat covered his figure, featuring golden buttons with intricate carvings on them. Despite tightly fitting his fairly unimpressive frame, the clothing lay on him as if there was actual flesh underneath. His skull was practically indistinguishable underneath the combination of a black top hat with a wide rim, and the white leather crow mask, contrasting fashionably with the rest of his outfit. His hands, clad in white leather gloves, rested on a hardwood gentleman's staff. As he entered, he tipped his hat slightly in a gesture of greeting. If not for the oppressive stench, Adler would find him quite unimposing.

Suddenly, the now serious voice of Watcher sounds out in his mind.

"Don't look at Sibtu. This is one case where ignorance will do you good, Adler."

His eyes immediately dart to the floor. As much as Watcher likes annoying him, he never threw around warnings haphazardly. Listening to his words of advice, especially spoken in such a stern tone, would do him only good. The only sight of Fear his eyes register are the ornate boots, dated in style even by his standards, decorated with square, iron buckles.

Adler looks up at the last newcomer. The first thing that catches his attention - as it always does - is the uniform Adaru wears. It is a somber ensemble, tailored from a deep, lustrous black fabric that seems to absorb both light and attention from everything that surrounds him. The coat, adorned with intricate silver embellishments, hangs sharply on his frame, giving him an imposing silhouette. Despite his fairly narrow stature, Adaru stands at an unnatural height, casting an imposing shadow on those before him. The angular lapels and precise stitching hints at meticulous craftsmanship, while the black gloves, tight and sleek, add to the oppressive air of formality. As customary for the members of the Commission, Adaru's face was wrapped carefully in pristine, white bandages. His hat was not unlike that of the newer generation of officers, and of course - black.

Black, black, black. Why is everything they want to wear black? Is this, perhaps, another characteristic of the new era? In his time, black was the color of commoners, not one suiting the top of the hierarchy. Nowadays it seems to be the cornerstone of order and elegance, but he just couldn't shake the association with grime and soot. Despite multiple offers and suggestions to do otherwise, he never ditched his old heraldry. In his opinion, most of his colleagues could use some color.

His thoughts were suddenly halted when Adaru turned to him, stretching out his arm for a handshake. Carefully, the skeleton took it, cautious so as to match the strength of his superior.

"General Aldehan Adler. It is always a pleasure to see you." Even if his eyes were covered, Adler was sure they were focused somewhere else. He relaxed slightly, comfortable in the notion that he was too uninteresting for the Knight. Having his attention was never a good thing.

Adler nodded, forcing a friendly note into his voice. "The pleasure is all mine, Lord Bearer."

Without another word, Adaru moved to stand at the head of the table, with Sunqu to his right and Sibtu to his left. Adler was seated on the other end of the table, with Watcher to his left.

"Gentlemen!" The Bearer of Pain spoke, his voice smooth and fairly modest in tone. "I am pleased to see you here in full attendance. The meeting will now come to order."

With that signal, everyone took their seats.

"It has recently come to my attention that the soul transplant procedure, at last, yielded results." The glance at Plague is enough of a suggestion, promoting him to reply.

"Indeed. Thanks to some improvements in the process, methodology and, of course, the appropriate host - for which the credit goes to Sibtu - I have managed to keep the subject stable and alive." Sunqu turns to the former humans. "I have placed him in the care of two of my most trusted associates."

"It is our honor, Lord Adaru." Watcher responds, placing his hand over his chest. "We appreciate the trust placed in us."

"I applaud your selection of assistants, brother. General Adler is a fine choice when it comes to martial matters." Pain smiles at the skeleton in question, before dropping his voice slightly, gaze pointed directly at him. "Even if the means and strategies change as the ages go by, his mind remains sharp and his constitution noble. And so does his sense of fashion."

Adler feels his long-gone heart drop. The feeling of three pairs of eyes burning into his very soul freezes his vessel, rendering him speechless. With a considerable amount of effort, Adler makes the motion to clear his throat.

"Thank you, Lord Adaru. I serve the Great One with all my strength."

Adaru smiles, slightly clearing the air. Gazes drift away from Adler. "Anyhow. I have yet to see the results in person. Would you be so kind as to share any information regarding the subject? How can we be sure he is fit to survive?"

"I have found this human to be very resilient, very resilient indeed." A dry voice echoes from where Fear sits. It is dull, but constant. Every vowel is spoken with a different layer of the same, mechanical tone, varying in pitch and volume. "His grip on life is impressive, and his resistance to Necro is beyond anything we have encountered before."

“I see, and I trust your judgment. Now, we need to pose ourselves the question of what to do with our new acquisition. Has any Bearer voiced a particular interest in him?”

“Sakurai Denki is yet uncontested.” Sunqu chimes in. “He is still an unsure investment. He appears to be stable, but his capabilities are still being tested.”

Adaru nods. “General? How is the subject’s performance during training? Are your perspectives positive regarding his future in the military?”

A trick question. Should his views be too optimistic, he might be considered a fool, but if he is too negative, his reputation as an objective authority will take a significant blow. He needs to find a middle ground. “The Sakurai is in good physical condition, but the Necro inside of him is quite unstable. It seems to fluctuate, although I can see no pattern in these changes-”

“Denki is still unstable, as fresh undead tend to be.” Watcher interrupts, his eyes focusing on Adaru who listens on with interest. “But the changes have yet to cause any damage. I believe that with our assistance - and Lord Sunqu will second me in this opinion - he will stabilize soon.”

“... Even if he makes mistakes quite frequently, he does not suffer a shortage of determination within him.” Adler continues, throwing a bitter glance at his predecessor. “I have yet to see him yield, even under my most… invasive methods. In my opinion, Lord Adaru, Denki has potential with a strong base to build upon.”

“Thank you, General.” Adaru straightens up, and puts his hand to his chin. He remains quiet for a moment, immersed in thought. ”I will admit this, gentlemen - the Adarian State Commission suffers a shortage of reliable field agents. If Sakurai is indeed as promising as you make him out to be, then I could find use for him, provided that he isn’t needed elsewhere.”

“Ah, I see what kind of a use you have in mind. But that depends. An individual of unchallenged loyalty and unshaken resolve is needed here. I can assure the former, but does our subject have the latter?” Sunqu moves his hand, subtly signaling at Adler.

The undead thinks for a moment, making sure to do so in images rather than words to make his considerations harder to read. Isn’t it too early? Denki is young to be a soldier, perhaps too young. And certainly he shouldn’t be made to…

“General?” Sunqu speaks again, his tone lacking malice, but the sting of his gaze is quite a telling signal.

Adler stops himself, and speaks out without much hesitation. “I will do as you ask, but I am not willing to take responsibility for the results. Your proposition can influence him in significant ways, all of which may make his training… harder to complete.”

“Have some trust in my handiwork, General. But very well, I will humor you - the responsibility for this test will fall on me personally. On one, single condition.” Sunqu smiles, his polished teeth reflecting the light cast from the chandelier above. “You will test his mettle tonight. I want to see if this venture is worth my time.”

Adler looks down at his gloved hands, and sighs in quiet annoyance.

“I shall do as you command, Lord Sunqu.”

—

Waltz eyes his guest as he uses the silver pincers to lift the blue crystal to his jaw. He promptly crushes it between his teeth and lets the shards fall through his mouth and down into the ornamental bowl below. The juicy, sweet taste of a cold strawberry (or rather the memory of it) pulses pleasantly from his core and throughout the rest of his skeletal body.

What spoils the delightful taste in his soul, however, is the crude sight of Denki’s whole hand clenched around the fork’s handle as he shyly picks at the Coq au Vin on his plate, wielding the cutlery as if it was a dagger. Not even the rich, opulent decor of the private lounge he rented can distract him enough from the sorry sight in front.

Waltz clears his throat, making sure to keep a steady expression against the odds. His right hand grips his wine glass, the other straightening out his collar.

“I take it, Denki Sakurai, that you are not from here.” He starts out, and Denki looks up. Waltz’s white pinprick eyes meet the gray pupils of the human. “Your name is reason enough for a particular speculation, but it is not appropriate to make assumptions.”

“I’m Inazuman, sir.” Before he can elaborate, Waltz cuts in.

“I see! That explains your… unfamiliarity… with the cutlery. Allow me.”

Without hesitation, Waltz jumps up from his chair. The screech of the wood against the floor stings Denki’s ears. The skeleton starts moving over with decisive steps, circling around the long table. His heart drops as the realization hits it and with that, time seems to slow around him.

Mistake. Mistake. He made a mistake. He made a mistake and there will be consequences.

Denki’s heart is picking up the pace, and so is his breathing. Not yet. His hands adjust around the hilts of the silverware, his mind darting from memory to memory, searching for any reference. Every step Waltz takes feels like a painful eternity.

He was told, wasn’t he? He was taught how to use these, but he forgot, and he knows what that means. Punishment, forgetting means punishment. He disappointed Waltz and forced him to waste his precious time to correct him.

His thoughts overwhelm him like a river’s current. His eyes turn azure, setting loose memories. Instincts. Lessons from the past years and what followed, dealt by hands of the teachers. Waltz’s skeletal visage twists into a pale face wrapped in bandages before Denki’s eyes, his Vision twisting into a glimmering Delusion.

Not yet. Not yet. The footsteps draw closer. Denki can still taste the blood on his gums from today’s earlier mistake, his jaw still aches dully, he can’t take one more. It was going so well. He explained things to him, gave him food, treated him well, and this is how he repays Waltz?

There’s no time. Nothing comes to his mind. He wants to beg, plead for just a moment longer, promise that he will do better, but is unable to. Fear turns into terror, constricting his throat and silencing his voice. Desperation. But Denki knows better than to cry and be pathetic. Nothing will save him now. He lowers the cutlery with shaking hands and latches them to the table, seeking any comfort.

Waltz says something, but Denki can’t make it out. He stiffens, gaze obediently fixed on the plate before him, away from Waltz. The footsteps stop, and in a split second the man’s mind is flooded with their toolkit. Open palm. Fist. Kick. Whip. Cane. Baton. His body tenses in preparation for whatever torture is about to come. He knows better than to resist, it will only make things worse.

Denki sees hands coming towards him. Too much. Too soon. He lets out a quiet gasp and it turns into a cry of pain as he feels something cutting the skin on his back.

Suddenly, silence. No new pain, no slur, no laughter.

Denki opens his eyes, preparing for a disciplinary blow. Instead of his teacher, however, he sees Waltz, frozen in his tracks with his arms still outstretched. Through the mist of his tears Denki can read an aura of concern emanating from the undead.

There's a moment of silence. The skeleton lowers his arm, letting it drop limply against his side. The narrow points in the undead’s eyes shrink further, not larger than grains of sand. Waltz narrows his non-existent brows, and slowly moves closer to Denki, placing a skeletal hand on his shoulder.

“Are you unwell? Should I call a medic?” He asks with a stern, yet worried voice. Denki takes a deep, shaky breath and wipes his face with his sleeve.

A sense of shame overcomes him, the sort of shame that encourages him to scratch out his very eyes and flee to die in a dark corner.

Denki swallows the embarrassment and tries to speak. “I’m sorry-”

“No-no. It's alright.” In response, the skeleton softly pats Denki on his shoulder, looking him straight in the eyes with a sense of camaraderie and understanding. “The fault is all mine. With what I know about you, I should have been more careful. Now, Denki Sakurai, would you mind if I showed you how to use these?” He points to the tableware.

Denki nods. With slow movements and a steady tone, the general showcases the proper method of handling the tableware and, before long, Denki operates them with more confidence, allowing Waltz to return to his seat.

“Although I am unfamiliar with the exact details, I do know that your passing has been, shall I say, less than ideal.” He gestures towards Denki. “When you were startled, your eyes turned blue. May I know what that means?”

The young man remains silent for a moment, pondering the question. His thoughts are interrupted when the searing pain on his back catches his attention. He slides his hand behind his collar and traces his fingers down where the pain originates from. Suddenly, he feels the familiar warmth of blood and a large, fresh gash on his back. After retracting his arm and confirming his suspicions, Denki answers.

“I’m not sure, sir.” The blood on his fingers is a deep crimson, contrasting with his nearly snow-white skin. “I wasn’t aware of it until now.”

Waltz nods. “It seems pointing it out to The Watcher might be a good idea. Anyhow, please, help yourself to the food. It won’t taste as delightful when cold.”

After discreetly using his sleeve to wipe the blood clean, Denki tastes the meat doused in brownish sauce and is immediately hit with a rich, intense and slightly alcoholic flavor unlike any he had experienced before. He closes his eyes, letting it dissipate pleasantly on his tongue.

Waltz smirks at his companion's reaction. He chews another piece of candy, this time the taste of a freshly baked, buttered bun. His hand instinctively reaches for the wineglass, finding it filled to the brim with fine Clochette Terrestre, the memory of which has been meticulously formed into a dense, red mist. As he lifts the vessel to his jaw and tilts it upwards, the substance pours down his bones, latching onto the copper wires lining his spine, flowing down into his core and dissipating. Waltz revels in the rich, deep flavor of someone's finest memory of the drink.

His eyes find their way back to Denki, who is picking the meal apart with his fork.

“Is everything to your liking, Denki Sakurai?”

The man seems startled by the question as he freezes, but promptly clears his throat and relaxes.

“Yes, general. It's a bit different, more intense than anything I had in the past. That's all. Also, if I may…” Waltz gestures encouragingly with his hand, and Denki continues. “In Inazuma, the family name is usually said before the first name.”

Waltz's irises flicker and he frowns. What a fool he made of himself! His mind scrambles for an explanation. He didn't know! Right, yes.

“Forgive my ignorance, Sakurai Denki. My home nation, Fontaine, is everything but close to yours, and so is Umbra, in which I spent the last fifty three years, meaning my lack of knowledge is a somewhat natural result of my situation.”

Waltz sends Denki a courteous smile. His foot starts tapping on the marble tiles below with impatience.

“It's no problem.”

Waltz deflates, the façade of his smile turning into a genuine expression of satisfaction. Crisis averted.

“Speaking of, your lineage must be truly worthy of respect. After all, who else is there to honor for raising such a well-mannered young man?”

The other shifts in his chair. He hesitantly tastes the next portion.

“Thank you. My parents made multiple contributions towards the safety of Inazuma, but they never received recognition from the public. Their occupation was a lot less flashy than that of other nobles.”

Waltz can't help the smile. “Ah! So you're of high birth… That would explain your eloquent speech and predispositions. I see why the Great One chose you.” Denki doesn't seem to think much of the praise. Instead, his face remains blank, but the wrinkles of exhaustion seemed to deepen. The undead clears his throat. “Although the way you speak of them encourages a certain conclusion. My condolences.”

A slight, dismissive nod comes as a reply. Denki chews quietly for some time, causing an awkward silence to envelop the table. Waltz lets out a nigh inaudible sigh as he takes another sip of his wine, waiting for an answer.

“Forgive my bluntness, Sakurai Denki, but it seems that being a good conversation partner is not your forte.” Waltz leans forward in his chair, a note of annoyed disappointment in his voice. “Which is unusual considering your origin.”

Denki's eyes flicker with a purple tint. “General, I’m sorry that you find me uninteresting. My social skills might not be on a high level as I didn’t have the opportunity to learn everything. I… didn’t have enough time.” “Oh. Forgive me for my insensitivity. How old were you when you passed, if I may know?”

For a moment, the human tries to recall the last time he called Narukami Island his home. The memories are blurry, with many undated gaps between his departure and revival. “I think I was around seventeen, sir.”

Waltz takes a sip of his wine and nods. “I see. You are a proper young man it seems, but your intelligence is quite beyond your age. I’m sure you had an easy time making friends in your earlier years?”

A small smile starts to turn Denki’s lips as the first pleasant words in his recent memory warm his soul. He shakes his head slightly. “To be truthful with you, I wasn’t the type to enjoy outings or parties, neither formal nor informal. I spent most of my days with a book in my hands.” “That’s commendable, Sakurai Denki. Especially seeing as youth tends to dismiss education these days, no matter where they are in Teyvat. What I had seen in Fontaine seems to apply to Umbra as well.” The general’s skeletal head turns with interest. “Speaking of Umbra, what are your impressions?” “It’s very cold here. Whenever I look out the window of my room or train, it always seems to be snowing or raining. Inazuma isn’t a warm nation, and I had some…” Denki pauses, searching for the right words. “... experiences in Snezhnaya, but still I cannot see the climate as anything but… sorry.”

In response, Waltz lets out an echoing chuckle. “Then it seems our opinions are alike. I also miss the temperate weather of the continent. I miss the hot summers, the brightness of nature awoken by spring - I even long for a winter. It has been too long since I’ve seen clean, white snow instead of the brownish slog covering the city now and then.” After seeing his glass is empty, the general raises his hand. A living attendant comes shortly, dressed in a proper three piece suit, and refills Waltz’s cup. “I have always wondered why the only season here seems to be autumn.” “Maybe it’s the wind?” The same waiter comes to take Denki’s plate. When the man asks if he wants dessert, Denki shakes his head and places a hand on his heart in a universal gesture of gratitude, prompting him to leave. “I have read that, in some parts of Teyvat, Anemo is strong enough to form currents that can push and pull clouds over thousands of miles. Maybe Umbra is near one of them.” Waltz nods. “It’s plausible. The people here, however, seem to have their own theories.” “What do they believe?”

Denki stops himself from lifting his cup of green tea right before it touches his lips. He lowers it and looks inside. The tea is comfortably ordinary with nothing unexpected inside. Relieved, he takes a sip.

“You see, Sakurai Denki, they believe it is a curse. A punishment from the Gods, to be precise. It is said that when the Cataclysm took place, a group of desperate survivors prayed for salvation to death itself, hoping to avoid punishment for their sins against the heavens. The Great One took pity on them and came to their aid, taking them in His care. With His power he tore out a piece of the ocean’s floor, carving out what is known as Umbra to this day as a safe haven for them. In return, they accepted Him as their leader and god, serving him both during their lives and beyond. However, Celestia loathed The Great One for harboring the unworthy. For his rejection of their rule, the Gods doomed Umbrians to life in this eternal, cold, hellish mudscape you see around you.”

Silence falls as Denki takes in the story. A question suddenly shines in his mind. “Why didn’t the Gods punish The Great One directly?” Waltz shrugs. “I don’t know. Perhaps for an immortal god, seeing their people suffer over a span of centuries is punishment enough?”

“Maybe you’re right, sir. At the end of the day, we might never know for certain. It is the gods we are talking about, after all. We aren’t in a position to understand them.”

“They are higher beings indeed. Even if we have transcended our mortality, our souls and minds are human still, and will likely remain so.”

Suddenly, a series of knocks on the wooden door sounds out. Both of the men turn their heads towards the noise. Waltz frowns. “Who goes there…” He whispers the phrase through his grit teeth, and changes his tone into a louder one. “Come in!”

The waiter opens the door and two skeletons, dressed in uniforms of similar fashion as Waltz’s enter the room. One stands near the door as the other marches up to the general. He leans in and whispers words into where the general’s ear once was. Although Denki can’t tell apart the words that are being spoken, their sounds suggest they are in Umbrian. Waltz listens intently, leaning towards the envoy with a pensive expression.

After relaying his message, the skeleton steps back. Waltz turns back to Denki, and raises up.

“I apologize, Sakurai Denki, but duty seems to call - in the most frustrating of moments, as usual. I’m afraid we will have to postpone our conversation until our next meeting.”

Denki stands up slowly. “I understand.”

He watches as Waltz draws a small block of white paper strips. Pulling out a black fountain pen with a golden tip, he makes several writings on the topmost one with just a few flicks of his wrist. Waltz tears it off and hands it to the waiter.

The skeleton’s eyes find their way back to the human. Waltz stretches out his hand, flashing Denki a smile. The man approaches him and takes the gloved hand in his, shaking it gently.

“Thank you, sir. The food was outstanding and it was an honor to be in your company.” As he speaks, Denki bows out of habit. Waltz doesn’t seem to mind, the feeling of a smile never escaping Denki’s mind.

“Ah, nonsense! I should be the one thanking you for your time. Someone of such a reputation and unique situation as yourself surely measures his time in Ether.” Their hands part, and Waltz places his hand on Denki’s shoulder. “Besides, you must have trained hard today. You are surely exhausted.”

Their eyes meet, and Denki’s heart warms at the sympathy he finds in Waltz’s irises.

“I wish you a restful night, Sakurai Denki.”

But there was no rest to be had that night.

Around midnight, when the pale light of the moon was the most prominent, Denki was shaken awake. Without a moment to question or even understand his situation, he was forced to spring out of bed and dress up amidst shouted orders. The skeletons that came for him wasted no time, shoving him out of his room and practically dragging him through multiple corridors and staircases.

As he marched through the fortress, he could finally collect his thoughts. The most instinctual part of his mind raises alarms - it wasn’t the first time in his life when his privacy and rest was violated. But this time, it is the undead that ripped him out of the bed. What would surely scare the majority of people, however, brings him a sense of comfort in separating the memories from the present.

He sneaks glances at the soldiers that are escorting him. Their weapons are absent from their sheaths, but the rest of their equipment is in place. Black, matte plates lined with similarly dark padding underneath effectively hide every bit of bone from the onlooker. The padding stretches from their heavy boots, over their rib cages and up to a high collar, tucked into their tight-fitting helmet on their skulls. In the front, the metal visage of an expressionless man covers their features, but Denki can still spot their glowing, white eyes within. He has seen their kind of armor before - he wore it during his training, learning how to put it on and getting comfortable with its weight. Without a doubt, they are Legionaries, the same that Denki saw Adler around many times before.

Despite the exhaustion imprinted on his face, Denki smiles. Will he become one of them?

They lead him towards a side door that the human assumes to be, based on the lack of any windows, several layers beneath the ground level. Without knocking the soldiers push the door open, and motion for Denki to go inside. In the room stand two more Legionaries in full uniform, a skeleton in a flowing black robe and Adler himself.

The commander approaches Denki right away.

“Ready?” He asks with a demanding voice.

Denki nods, but his voice comes out slightly mumbled. “Yes, sir.”

Adler frowns, and turns his gaze left, where a large, open barrel stands. Several cloths are partially submerged in the water within, likely used in cleaning the soldiers’ equipment. Adler submerges his hand into the vessel, gathering water into his glove. Promptly, he turns back to Denki and splashes it across his face without warning. Denki recoils and gasps as the icy fluid instantly brings his senses back to working order. He coughs out the water that got into his mouth, and Adler crosses his arms over his chest.

“Feeling awake yet? More confidence! You’re a man, not a teenage girl, Denki.”

“Yes sir!”

“Better.” He points to a rack with a complete set of equipment, polished and ready. “Get your armor on, pronto. Everybody is waiting for you.”

Denki wastes no time and rushes over. He starts with the leather jacket, draping it over his shirt and quickly buttoning it up. Despite being designed primarily for undead, the cotton reinforcement was left exposed from the inside, giving the wearer surprising comfort, along with plenty of warmth. Adler watches closely as Denki puts on the lower part of the fit, replacing his nightgown bottom with a thick, protective layer of dark leather and sliding heavy boots with studded soles on his feet. The armor plates are next - the most difficult part of the process. He quickly throws the top plate over his chest and starts clumsily buckling the straps, securing it tightly to his muscular chest. What comes after is easier - the greaves, braces and other limb protection doesn’t prove as challenging to fit. Soon his equipment is finished up with three belts - one for his waist, fitted with small pouches and two for his sides, with that for his right thigh holding a sizable knife, and the other an empty holster, with a secure strap on the top. Denki adds the helmet, tailor-made for his flesh-covered head, and reaches for the mask.

“You aren’t a skeleton, are you now? You don’t need that.” Adler says, and motions for Denki to come over.

The man obeys. Adler reaches down with his left hand, unbuckling his holster and drawing the weapon inside. He turns it so that the handle is pointed towards Denki, and the human takes it in his hand.

The gun is unlike anything Denki ever saw in his life. A flintlock pistol from Fontaine is the closest item that it could be compared to, but it would still do no justice to how different the contraption was. Instead of wood, most of it was constructed from metal, this weapon’s being painted a dull gray with accordance to the nighttime camouflage pattern he was wearing. Instead of the multitude of parts one could see in a musket, this armament’s jaw was made up of a single element - a hammer-shaped piece of metal that would strike the unusual, box shaped part located right next to it when the trigger was pulled. It was shorter, yet heavier than a flintlock pistol. In spite of how often his mentor made Denki handle such a gun, he was still unsure every time he took it in his hands. The occasional tournaments in Inazuma were almost impossible to attend due to the noise, and firing such a device was all the more difficult than watching it in the hands of someone else.

Still, he needed to swallow his worries. He won’t become what he is meant to be by being fearful.

“Reza Model 22. Rules.” Adler eyes Denki with expectation. The latter takes a deep breath, and begins reciting what he was made to remember.

“I keep the safety on until the mission begins. I only use it in an emergency. I never aim it at my teammates. I keep my finger off the… the…” His heart skips a beat as he sees the skeleton’s aura darken. “T-trigger.”

Adler nods. “Good. Now load it.”

Denki takes the small cartridge box from Adler’s hand and cracks it open. The bullets within are as unique as the weapon itself. The outer layers of each are made exclusively out of brass, with the shell hiding what he was told to be the gunpowder, with the bullet, mounted at the tip and shaped like a dull spike of sorts being the only exposed part of the whole cartridge.

He picks out five of them. Cocking a small lever on the side lets the barrel be moved. Denki carefully slides each round into a chamber, taking care not to use any force this time. His arms still ached from holding himself up as punishment for when his recklessness caused him to damage the barrel of his training pistol. After filling the chamber, he puts it back into place.

“I need to put the safety on.” He says before Adler has a chance to instruct him again, a glimmer of approval shining in his eyes.

Denki uses his thumb to slide a small, wooden cap to the side. It shifts to rest between the hammer and the cylinder, preventing an accidental firing. He then slides it into place on the back of his left thigh.

“Well done. It seems that you can follow simple commands.” Adler chuckles, turning around to face the rest of the skeletons.

They stand near the undead in the robe, their backpacks on and crossbows in their hands. Denki slides on his gauntlets, made of thick, dark brown leather with small armor plates on the outside parts. They are painted, just like the rest of the metal - to prevent light from reflecting off of them and giving the wearer’s position away. Snatching the rectangular shield and his shortsword from the rack, Denki focuses his mind on the weapons, and soon enough, they glow a bright yellow. He marvels at them as they fall apart into small, shining dust before completely fading away. Despite their dematerialisation, he can still feel they are nearby. He flicks his hands as if attacking something with the sword, just like Adler taught him, and surely enough the sword reappears in his grip. Denki dismisses the weapon and eyes the final weapon on the rack - a heavy crossbow. He takes it in his hold, and at last he joins the rest of the group.

The lich raises up from the floor, uncovering the complex chalk drawing on the tiles. Copper wires line every part of the symbol, connecting at the small red crystals placed on overlapping points of the icon.

There’s a moment of silence. Adler talks to the mysterious skeleton in Umbrian, Denki being able to recognise just a select few of the words spoken. His shoulders are quite close to the heads of the skeletons around him.

Was he this tall before? Suddenly, a violent screech fills the room, making Denki almost drop the crossbow. He looks up at the source of the noise, one hand over his ear, and sees… nothing. Where the wall was just moments before, there’s a tear - just as if someone outlined the area and painted it black. However, no light was reflected by as much as an inch of the surface.

“Let’s move.” Adler says, and the skeletons step forward.

Without hesitation, they just walk into the rift, their frames vanishing into the void beyond. Denki approaches from the side as his last comrade walks through. He finds that it is not, in fact, a crack in the wall, but rather a space floating in the air, directly above the chalk circle. As he moves his head to view it from the side, he finds it to be… invisible? He looks back at the front, and the black gash reappears. And yet, when he views it from behind, he can see only an impatient Adler-

Denki’s eyes widen, and he springs back to the front. He waits for a verbal correction, but none comes.

“Fascinating, right? I wasn’t believing my eyes the first time I saw a portal, just as you are.” He walks towards the rift and places his heavy arm on Denki’s back. “I can tell you more about them, but later. For now, get a move on.”

A slight push forces Denki to step closer to the passage. No sound, wind or smell comes from within. He tightens his fingers around the stock of the crossbow in his hands, and runs into the rift.

For a brief moment, his vision goes completely dark. Then, a barrage of colors, some of them he would be unable to even name. They twist like worms, flowing into various, repeating patterns with spike-like protrusions. Overwhelmed, he feels his knees give out and he falls forward, plummeting face first into the ground.

Denki's head throbs. Unable to see with fractal patterns dancing before his eyes, he feels the ground with his hands.

Mud. Slick grass. He takes a breath. The air is cold, humid, but not frigid. Sounds of rain surround him. He feels the droplets sink into his clothing.

Finally daring to open his eyes, he sees what he has nearly forgotten. Grass. Fresh, lush, slightly bluish in the moonlight. He drags his fingers over its blades, unable to feel it through his glove. Slowly, he raises up, snatching his crossbow from the ground.

Rain pours down from the black sky above as he examines the area around him. Grasslands, barely visible in the dark, stretch in every direction, sprinkled with birch and oak trees here and there. The terrain houses many bushes, fallen trees and rocky irregularities, but remains mostly flat.

His team is barely visible to him, but squinting his eyes reveals their silhouettes, even darker than the backdrop of the rocks they crouch behind. Denki wastes no time and scurries to a lone stone, hoping his small stumble didn't earn him a punishment.

Adler stands several meters away from his position, looking around. Denki cannot help his curiosity, and looks behind the rock he is resting against and in the same direction Adler's gaze stopped on.

Despite the fog raised by the rain, the city is clearly visible as the lights within pierce through the obstruction. It's walled and positioned on a small rock isle, a stone bridge lined with lanterns being its only connection to the mainland. On top of the towers, several, multi armed windmills draw his attention, completely still in the hostile weather.

He sits back down. How did the opening carry them from Umbra up to here, a thousand kilometers away?

The commander raises his hand. A skeleton approaches him, and after a brief exchange takes off to the side.

Minutes pass. Denki's shirt is soaked, the rain pouring through every opening in his armor without pause. He lets loose an involuntary shiver, his breath turning to fog in the night's cool.

At last, Adler speaks, breaking the monotonous rustle of the rain.

“On me.”

As one, the skeletons raise up and jog up to their commander, with Denki following suit. His boots sink into the muddy road, but he presses on, splashing it around with every hastened step he takes. Before Denki can even fully warm up, their units stop abruptly. His comrades part, letting Denki see Adler motioning for him to come closer. He complies.

“Over there.” Adler points, Denki's eyes following his clue. Right away, he notices the warm, orange light of a campfire some distance away, accompanied by several rugged tents. “Hilichurls.”

Although it takes a moment, Denki notices a handful of lean figures through the rain. “Are they who we are looking for?”

“Well, in a sense, yes. Our target practice.”

Denki furrows his wet brows. He knew what they came here for, but hearing Adler's words, acknowledging their meaning and consequences makes him uneasy.

Hilichurls are monsters, yes - just like slime, like Vishaps or Whooperflowers. But there's something exceptionally human about them that sets them apart from the rest. The way they can build, light fire, speak and form groups always seemed eerie for Denki.

He grips his crossbow tighter, the weapon of fast approaching murder.

It's just Hilichurls. Monsters. They are dangerous, he thinks. They need to be removed, else somebody might get hurt. He knows this, and yet, the idea doesn't spark excitement in him.

“We're going to go to the right, over there. See?” The skeleton points again. “Near those bushes. We’ll get a clear shot.”

Just a few seconds are enough for the unit to change their position. Adler kneels down, Denki joining him before the undead’s armor could touch the ground. Denki knows what to do.

“Five in the camp in total, three asleep. I don't see any noteworthy weapons in the tents.” He whispers, eyes darting from figure to figure. Despite how barbaric he knows them to be, they seem harmless. Peaceful even.

“Very well. I want you to take out the one sitting on the log to the right. It should be an easy shot for you to take.” Adler switches his language, tone remaining firm but quiet. “Load.”

Denki understands the command and quickly lowers his crossbow. He slides the metal now underneath the sole of his shoe. After freeing the string, he pulls it upwards. Every muscle in his torso and arms tense as the heavy crossbow creaks quietly, but eventually he pushes the tip of the line into a dedicated slot. Opening a pouch on the back of his belt, he draws a short bolt and places it carefully on the track.

“Aim.”

Denki raises the weapon, lining the tip of his bolt with the humanoid figure by the fire. His heart pounds. His right hand rests over the trigger, ready to push upwards in a split second.

His arms wobble under both the weight of the weapon and the sinking feeling in his heart. Denki bites his lips and props his right elbow on his raised leg. His aim grows still.

“Fire.”

Denki pushes the level upwards, setting the projectile loose.

Simultaneously, five more bolts are released as the team fires with him. In a flash, Denki's arrow finds its mark. The missile sinks into the Hilichurl’s side with a full thud. It lets out a yelp and falls from the trunk.

A second passes. Then the next. The only sounds are the droplets of rain plummeting from the sky. In the camp, there are no movements. The Hilichurls lie still on the mud and in their tents. Some of them never woke up.

“Clear.” Adler says, raising his hand and waving it forward. “Let's go.”

The company moves as ordered, this time at a normal walking pace. As they approach the campsite, the fog clears enough for Denki to get a better look at the tents. Calling them makeshift would be an insult to all things provisional. The cloth is made up of various fabrics differing in color, stitched together with thick threads. The water weighs heavy on the covers, coming through the ever present holes in slow, steady streams. Despite that, as he enters the camp, he can tell the hay inside every single one is at least partially dry.

“Search! Grab every valuable item you can find.” Adler orders, and the undead get to work. Denki picks out the shelter closest to him and goes in.

There's no monster carcass inside. Instead, he finds it full of crooked pottery and rudimentary boxes with red paint chaotically splashed across them. Denki strikes the top with the butt of his crossbow. The lid proves tougher than he expected, but another more forceful blow shatters the shoddy construction. The man can't see its contents through the darkness. He reaches for the pouch on his belt and draws a crystal. He unwraps the wire, and right as it is untied it starts glowing a bright yellow light. Using the Electro crystal’s light, he examines the contents. Rotten fruit, bags of stolen grain and rusty weapons fill the box.

Nothing interesting. But then again, what did he really expect from Hilichurls?

He leaves the tent. The area is littered with broken planks, smashed pottery and various miscellaneous pieces of junk. Someone already stomped out the fire, leaving most of the site to be illuminated solely by the moon. A red glint in a nearby puddle catches his eye.

Blood has long started pouring from the creature he killed, mixing with the rainwater on the ground. It lies on its side, facing away from him. Denki crouches down and gently turns it over, coming face to face with its white mask adorned with unintelligible symbols. Using his free hand, Denki tugs at the fur around its neck, but it doesn't budge.The hairs are wet and filthy, littered with mud and dried, yellowed remains of… something. Below the mask the mane is stained dark red with blood, prompting him to turn his attention to the bolt. Only the back end of it sticks out of the body, seemingly having either broken them or passed in-between, burying itself in the right lung of the creature. He trails down, noticing how, despite having a fragile appearance, muscles line its stomach. Its nails, placed on five fingered hands, are long and unkempt with dirt and blood underneath. There's a simple bracelet around its wrist, composed of sea shells and pieces of polished metals.

“Admirable shot.”

Denki jumps and nearly falls onto the body. He turns around and sees Adler, looking down on him with a smirk of approval. The man recovers and rises to his feet, wiping the mud off his thigh plates.

“Have you found anything interesting?”

Denki shakes his head. “No, sir.”

“Happens. Not every expedition yields income. Now come, we're done here. Let's not waste time.” Adler walks away, but Denki doesn't follow. Instead, he turns back to the Hilichurl. As if reading his mind, Adler speaks over his shoulder. “I’d advise you to leave the mask on. It's there for a purpose.”

His hand, already reaching for the wooden veil, stops, and he raises up to rejoin his comrades.

Under the cover of darkness, they move southwards, away from the city. The rain faded, shortly giving way to the chirping of crickets. As the soil absorbs water, the terrain becomes more traversable.

In a low voice, Adler breaks the silence.

“Remember, boy, that everything you can get your hands on that is on or near the enemy is yours to keep - that is the conqueror's right.”

“To the victor go the spoils.” Denki speaks out, and quickly adds: “Sir.”

His mentor nods. “Aside from Mora. Mora has much more use than a mere currency. Alchemy, forging, necromancy, sciences - any practical art you can name makes use of its power. Regardless, you can exchange it for Ether, ten to one.”

“I understand, sir.”

The unit reaches a small clearing. Someone draws a pair of binoculars, and examines some areas invisible to Denki. The Legionnaire turns around and signals to Adler with a small nod. The general hums, putting an arm around Denki's shoulders.

“Now, Denki, we'll see if you have what it takes to become a man. We'll find out what you are made of.” Aldehan Adler takes the binoculars from the scout and passes them on to Denki. He takes the wooden instrument in his hands, bringing them closer to his eyes and turning them in the direction pointed to by Adler.

His eyes instantly pick up the light coming from a small crevice in the terrain. During daytime, the camp within, adorned with triangular, green cloth to stop the rain would be nigh impossible to spot. Now, however, it's easy prey-

Prey…?

He shakes off the thought.

Unlike the camp of the Hilichurls, this one is far more organized. Denki spots a tent over the rocky elevation, partially obscuring his view. It's completely gray, clearly designed with care - the shape is perfectly triangular, and the ropes stretch from the pegs and under the fabric to ensure the construction is stable. Behind the shelter there's a small, makeshift fence on which various clothes rest, their every thread thoroughly soaked.

“We separate into groups of three. Two and four go with you from the left, and the rest of us jump down from the right. We jump down after you kill the wachmann, and start the massacre. They will be panicked, disoriented, easy to kill.” Adler speaks quickly, likely impatient.

Denki wants to say something against the plan. Anything, even for a nonsensical reason. Whoever is in there likely doesn't have good intentions - why else would they choose to camp out in the open? Even if they are Treasure Hoarders, criminals, low lives, the very scum of the earth… No.

He couldn't do it.

He hands the binoculars back to the scout. Denki turns to his master, but as soon as he opens his mouth to speak his words die right in his throat.

What would Adler do if he said no?

Weak. That would be what he would hear. Pathetic wimp. Waste of time and space. He would have to hold himself up for hours on end, run in ankle ties of sharp wire, crawl over sharp rocks and mud until he would beg at Adler’s feet for forgiveness. He would mumble and cry, again.

And yet, he didn’t want to do it.

He didn’t want to obey, but was there really an alternative? Adler took him under his wing, The Great One offered him a new life. He was given a home, a place of safety. He was never hungry. He was never cold. All he is asked in return is a choice. A choice between weakness and… strength. Grit. Stoicism. He can show them that he can move on, be strong again. Achieve, mature. Become someone worthy of what he has received, a man deserving of respect, both feared and adored by those around him.

He has to do it.

“I’m ready, sir.”

Without delay, Adler waves for two of the Legionaries to come with him. “I like that attitude, Denki. Get going.”

His group turns around. Denki follows their lead, careful to maintain his balance on the uneven, partially sunken road. The leading soldier quickly locates a smoother descent and slides down to the level of the camp, the other two following suit. Keeping a borderline crouch position, they wade through the trees and approach the entry to the base as close as the greenery will allow them to stay out of view. Denki sees his teammates load their crossbows, and so does he. One of them turns to him.

“Do you see the man in that lean-to? Shoot at him with me. Wait for my signal, and remember to aim at the chest. It will be easy to hit.”

Denki takes aim, his hand tucked securely away from the trigger mechanism. His gray eyes pick up a flash of purple light from the rocky platform above the campsite. Illuminated by the signal are the other members of the team, their shields and swords at the ready.

His eyes wander back to the human at the other end of his weapon.

They sleep clothed, covered with ragged blankets. There’s a flask and a knife by his side, the candle that once illuminated them long burnt to the end of the wick.

“Fire.”

The tension in his body is released as the bolt flies loose. The bandit opens his eyes, but before he can even react the projectile pierces his stomach, with the other planting itself directly in the middle of his chest. He curls and falls to the ground with a choked grunt. Behind him, the rudimentary roof collapses under the weight of the three armored undead as they jump down into the camp. A woman raises up from the ground, but her life is taken before she can make a sound. An axe leaves her skull split in half, painting the wight’s armor red with fresh blood. To the right, Adler stabs a startled human through the stomach, pinning him to the ground. With violent glee he turns the blade in his flesh, making his victim wail.

“Charge!” The command falls from the skeleton on Denki’s right.

He slings his crossbow over the shoulder and dashes out of their hiding spot. As he enters the camp, his melee weapons are already resting in his hands. A quick glance over his surroundings reveals most of the work has already been done. Bodies lie strewn around the ground, amongst packs and chests splattered with blood. With adrenaline pumping through his veins, Denki rips the front flaps of the tent to his left, revealing a lifeless body with a crossbow bolt lodged in its back, wrapped in bloody bed sheets. With his next breath, Denki takes in the nauseating scent of copper, causing him to back out and into fresh air.

He lowers his weapons. It’s done. He turns to view the others.

The subtle sound of a body being turned over escapes his ears.

In a flash, someone latches onto his back. Denki curls on reflex, making the assailant’s blade miss his throat by inches, sliding harmlessly off his armor. He struggles, trying to shake them off. The blade strikes again and again, each time meeting hard steel instead of vulnerable flesh. Fighting back, Denki dismisses his shield and uses his left elbow to strike at the attacker, causing them to let go. He darts around, coming face to face with a smaller figure clad in a brown cloak.

She wastes no time and delivers a decisive kick to his knee, causing him to stumble. He raises his sword just in time to block her dagger arm, but his victory is short lived as he receives another kick, this time into his groin. He growls through the pain, and clumsily uses his whole weight to ram the bandit. They both fall through the tent, tripping over the dead body and plummeting to the ground. The woman pushes the disoriented Denki to the side, but he manages to get a fistful of her hood along with the hair. She yelps and kicks him in the face, using the initiative to flip around and stab at his eyes. Denki covers it with his iron-clad arm, rolling over to his stomach and tackling her again, sending both of them over to the edge. He pushes himself up to hover over her and grabs a hold on her neck. She attempts to retaliate with the knife pointed at his throat. Denki attempts to seize her wrist, yet is stopped by a knee right to his stomach. A glint of steel is all he sees before the very tip of the knife buries into his face and slices upward right through his left eye.

He lets out a howl of pain, clutching his wound but never letting off the girl. She kicks and punches to get herself free but his body is too heavy. Grabbing a hold of his shoulders and flipping him over. Denki strikes at her chaotically, knocking both of them through the stick fence and down into the sandy ditch below. The woman yelps as his armored body crushes her hand with its weight, her only weapon falling out of her grip. She lands on the ground with her opponent rolling just past her.

She tries to scramble to her feet, but her damaged hand proves unable to provide any support. Sobbing, she grabs a handful of wet sand and throws it at Denki who is rising up, using his sword as a booster. He stumbles over, knuckles growing white from his grip on the weapon and teeth clenched tightly, adrenaline pulsing through his body.

The woman whines, raising her good hand defensively, but instead of mercy she is met with a crude horizontal slice across her chest. She screams and is promptly silenced when Denki points the sword at her stomach and rests on the handle with his full weight, pushing it through her like through a pillow.

He pants heavily as he stares into her green eyes, wide with shock and agony. His remaining iris glows deep purple while blood continuously drips from his destroyed eyeball and onto her clothing.

Denki watches as life slowly leaves her eyes. At first she struggles, attempting to push the sword out of her wound but soon grows weak, her gasping for air replaced with slight twitching.

Before long, her body grows completely still.

With a groan of extension, Denki withdraws his sword and falls back. He doesn’t even have the strength to look up when clapping sounds out through the night. “Well done!” Adler congratulates Denki with several slow claps, a wide smile on his absent lips. “Sloppily, barely, but well done!”

Followed by the team, Adler steps through the collapsed fence and down into the ditch. He looks over at the body, and then back to Denki, who by that time managed to sit up, his blade still stuck to his hand. He looks up at Adler.

“Why didn’t you… help me?” His voice is hoarse from exhaustion and screaming. He feels as if someone had poured acid down his throat.

Adler crouches down to meet the man on eye level. “Because I don’t want losers, dead weight, wimps. I want men. Men who can fight for their life and win. Those that can help themselves first. And it seems that you, Sakurai Denki, are one of them.”

Denki tries to stand up, but his knees feel weak. Adler grabs his arm and hoists him up against the nearest tree, allowing him a stable support to grab.

“A-am I…?”

Nodding, Adler seems to smile even wider. “Yes! Your strength, the sharpness of your mind, the pure desperation for survival… And the lack of hesitation. My boy, you aren’t just a natural survivor, oh no. You’re a born killer.”

Adler’s words distort in Denki’s mind. His eye feels heavy. Adrenaline rapidly leaves his system, the pain in his eye growing to an agonizing level. He fails to support himself and slides down to the ground.

He closes his eye.

The rain picks up again.

Thank you so much for reading!

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