Chương 2: GB - Chapter 2: The First To Answer

Luke began to panic. He had just killed a man. He'd never killed someone before. It was self-defense, sure, but he was in some weird dungeon, with only a hint of a clue as to how he got there.

"What is going on?" he whispered. It was then that Luke realized he hadn't been breathing.

"The fuck?" he said without breath. Just to test, he stayed put for a few seconds, not doing anything, just straddling the corpse of this man, and waiting to see if he felt the burn of pain in his lungs. But he felt none of that. He didn't need to breathe. He inhaled and exhaled, and found his lungs worked just fine, but he didn't have the urgent need to keep breathing over and over. The candles that were lit had gone out in the scuffle, and he could still see with perfect clarity.

The people on the ground around him were recently deceased: he'd seen enough corpses in his life to know that much. The ability to see in the dark kept giving him more pieces of the puzzle, and he was putting them together and coming up with a result from the data points. He could see one hand sticking up from the pile, and kneeling down, found a wedding band—a simple, silver ring with a name imprinted on the outside.

These people had loved ones, just like so many that Luke tried to help before an unfeeling world crushed their hopes and dreams. They were all garbed in the same type of armor, though some had been stripped down to their undergarments: simple pants and shirts made from a material he remembered seeing on a field trip, once, to the history museum. The voice filled with authority returned, and it sounded… satisfied. [The Arbiter of Souls has accepted you into the Soul Stream.] [You are a Gravebound Knight, who harnesses the powers of Pale Flame, Gravefrost, and Marrowsteel to fight. In the future, more Power Types may be at your disposal.] [Heed this warning: souls are sacrosanct, and destroying them is considered the ultimate taboo.] Luke's rational mind pushed aside the implications of not needing to breathe as he took in the new information, compiled it with what he had already learned, and came to a conclusion. He was undead. Living dead. A zombie or something like it.

He had died, and been brought back to life. But, he wasn't brought back to Chicago, or anywhere near, as he had been all over the city and never seen architecture like what he observed above him: thick wooden beams supporting more panels of wood. Luke took in a breath, felt it stay in his chest, and then let it out slowly: more as a method of keeping calm borne out of necessity than anything else. He looked down at the Necromancer's neck-snapped corpse, and that's when Luke really took in his own body.

The black spike had vanished from his gut, and he was wearing cracked plate armor with the same symbol as those on the corpses just behind him. He seemed too tall, as he was farther away from the ground than before. His arms seemed longer, his feet and hands bigger, and there wasn't any sign of his gut jutting out over a waistband.

As he ran a hand along his stomach, he could feel the wound where the spike had entered, and unlike the pain from touching raw flesh that he knew well enough from bandaging his own injuries during his youth, this was dull. He felt muscle down there as well. It was just more information that led to one, singular moment of understanding.

"This isn't my body," he whispered with the remaining breath left in his lungs. Luke felt a chill of fear race down his spine, though it wasn't a strong one, and he could feel his hand shaking at the realization that he was, apparently, a walking dead-man. He doubted he could live for long with a stomach wound like what he had, but he wasn't bleeding all that much, which confirmed to him the man's words about him being Undead.

He was sturdy, sure, but this wasn't his body, and Luke was sucking in rapid breaths as he began to hyperventilate at the realization that he had been put into someone else's form.

"No fucking way." His voice wasn't quite his. It sounded like him, a little bit, but deeper, with more resonance that shook his chest. Despite the rapid activity just a few seconds earlier, he didn't feel his heart beating from exertion—his chest was completely still. He tried to swallow, but realized that he didn't have to, and there was no saliva there. Still, he dry swallowed to see if he could, and he was able to. Luke closed his eyes and tried to push out all of the thoughts from his head.

He needed to focus on acting, not panicking. Doing that wouldn't be productive. He was alive—undead—now, and he had to make the best of the situation. He had died, but he had another chance in whatever twisted, fucked up way that the afterlife worked. Panic later, he thought. I need to figure shit out now. He looked around, and took in the room at large for any type of clue as to where he was—or who he was inside of.

It was a stone chamber, with a chandelier up above that had not seen use in quite some time, and a doorway that looked to be barricaded. Immediately, he went to the barricaded door and checked it. It was shut up tight. Once more, the voice returned to his eyes and ears. [I am The Last Warden. God of Death.] Luke took in a sharp breath and froze in place. He slowly let it out and said, "Can you fill me in on what's going on?" [Your soul was pulled into this body from your world.] Luke looked down at the Necromancer's body.

"Right, then." He needed to sort something, to organize, while his mind worked through questions to ask. He crouched, and began searching through the pockets of the now-dead mage. He made a small pile of weird amulets, scrolls bound with twine, and the like. Luke began moving the items into groupings for easy organization and analysis. The activity calmed his nerves. The first question that seemed logical was the first one he asked.

"How did I get here?" [Your Soul was taken.] Luke stood up, looking down at all of his organized items taken from the Necromancer. He'd always done that—organize—when he couldn't sleep, or needed to process, or was just going through a rough patch. It kept him grounded. He turned to face the corpse pile.

"How—" [Familiarize yourself with movement.] Luke didn't think it smart to disobey the voice in his head, and began pacing the room, trying to familiarize himself with his new body, pushing aside the dread revelation that he was now a literal walking corpse. He could feel the sluggishness and slowed movement come under his control, and he was able to walk normally after a good minute. [VITAE has been granted. A system of understanding magic. It should match with your operation-oriented mind.] Luke stopped his pacing as he realized what he just heard.

"Can I use magic?" he asked with a flutter of anticipation coursing through him. [First, you must survive. Mend your unliving flesh.] Luke's body felt like he had just been given a shot of the most powerful espresso on the planet, and he could feel jitters racing up and down his whole body. His hands started venting a golden flame, and he let out a yelp of surprise and shook them. His fingertips burned and then the golden flame erupted in a geyser that splashed against the stone but left no mark.

It fizzled out a second later, and Luke kept shaking his hands to cool them down. Pale, white-blue fire flickered from his fingertips, which felt like aloe vera applied to a burn, and it faded away a moment after. He looked down as he felt that same cooling feeling swirl all throughout his body. Words filled his vision, and mind. [Name: Pale Flame Bolt 1.] [Power Type: Pale Flame (Death + Heat).] [Duration: Instant.] [Mana: 10.] [Stamina: 0.] [Effect: The user launches a bolt of Pale Flame, which harms Living Creatures, or heals Undead Creatures. 30-foot range. 5% max Health damage dealt to Living Creatures. 5% max Health restored to Undead Creatures.] Luke could feel the swirl of cooling refreshment in his chest, and it shifted to a lukewarm heat. He instinctively flexed his right arm. The warmth kept flowing, faster, as if he had just dipped it into a hot bathtub.

Then, it pooled into his palm, and a bright, pale, white-blue flame flickered to life in his palm. The feeling was almost natural and practiced, as if the body itself was doing the work, not him.

"I'm Undead, so this can heal me?" Unbroken silence answered him. Well, Luke thought, nothing ventured, nothing gained. It's not like I have much to lose, and reading the text says it can. Luke pushed it against his stomach, and felt that same warmth surge through his body. [Health: 60 / 90] [Mana: 74 / 84] [Stamina: 86 / 86] Luke pushed aside the elation he felt at being able to, apparently, heal himself and use magic.

It was beyond his wildest dreams, something he could never have comprehended—but talking to this deity and gathering data was far more important to him at the moment. He could deal with the emotional response of being brought back as an Undead creature later. The same went for the shock of being ripped away from everything he knew and held dear.

He activated Pale Flame Bolt another few times, and saw with satisfaction that his Health filled up to full, though the warmth of what he ascribed his Mana to feel like had lessened. There was a cooldown timer—once every three seconds. He had survived, was alive… or what he considered alive for this new chance at life. The feeling of Mana flowing through him—that warmth that suffused his body and slowly began to trickle back into his veins from the chest before going outward to his limbs—made him realize something.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Luke had power. Power, perhaps, to make a difference. It was a far cry from when he was in Chicago, and all he could do was give information to people higher up the ladder than him, who would only act upon it when it served their interests. Now? Maybe he could make changes on his terms, using on-the-ground data to inform his decisions. He could… he could make a difference.

Still, the fact that he was a walking corpse was disconcerting, and he had to distract himself before any existential dread made itself more known.

"Alright," Luke said as he took in a deep breath despite not needing to—the act felt human, and he needed that at the moment.

"You're a god of Death." [I have many faces. This is but one of them.] Luke knelt, grabbed the amulet, and looked at it.

"Is this another one?" [That is my evil expression. You are currently speaking with my true expression: unbiased with good, evil, law, or chaos.]"Of course you'd have an alignment system," Luke muttered as he put the amulet down in its spot on the floor. He was never a fan of that in tabletop games, and now he found himself in a corpse, where a deity of death who ascribed to some arbitrary classification system was giving him information. At least I'm getting some form of guidance, he thought.

[The Necromancer's death has left some untended energies. Tend to them. Then, we shall speak once more.]"Wait," Luke said, feeling a desperation wash over him.

"I have more questions!" Silence answered.

"I need more information," Luke whispered. The emotions pushed aside for the conversation, the short brawl with the Necromancer, and waking up from the corpse pile—all of that came rushing back to him, like someone had been holding back a dam and it was just obliterated, allowing the torrent to pour out and crash through the valley of his mind. The deity, perhaps, was keeping those emotions at bay while Luke learned what he needed to, or did what had to be done.

He felt scared: he'd just woken up as a body, not his body, and apparently his soul had been ripped out of its place in the grand order of whatever the fuck ran things. The panic came to him in ways he wasn't able to easily divide out into categories and file away in its own little box: he had the wrong hands, wrong weight, wrong breath that never seemed to fully fill his lungs.

He wanted something like a procedure he could follow to tell him how to overcome the emotion—anything that turned the issue into a problem he could solve. He was worried, because he had left behind so much he cared for, and he didn't know what happened to anyone else, or how they would react to his death. There were people who would check their phones for his messages about the next day's report. They would wait for him to answer, and then realize he never would. Worse…

there were people he had been trying to protect, in his old neighborhood, who would mistake his absence and think he was just another person leaving them behind to suffer. He also felt very unsafe, and immediately moved over to the weapons. He was sure he would feel a bit safer with a weapon of some type: a sharp tool was always an incentive to keep the hell away. His hands moved over the weapons, and gravitated toward a sword with an elongated hilt that could fit two hands if needed.

A hand-and-half sword, though he didn't know how he knew that. As his hand found the grip, it felt snug, as if the blade was returning to its owner—for all he knew, it was returning to the palm that once gripped it. [Name: Melee Familiarity (Blade) 1.] [Power Type: Martial.] [Effect: The user is familiar with melee weapons and their use. They may use any Blade category melee weapon, and after an adjustment period, are considered proficient with it. +1% damage with bladed weapons.] Adjustment period for proficiency, that's handy, Luke thought. I won't have to train with bladed weapons. He dug around in the equipment pile for a scabbard and belt, found both, and then slid the weapon home with a rasping snickt. It felt appropriate, like it should be on his hip, and the weight was comfortable. Next, armor. He dug around more, and found exactly what he was looking for—undamaged pieces of the same type of armor.

Wanting some mobility and not sure if plate armor was the way to go, he went with padded undergarments—all of which were blood stained—and then an overcoat of scale mail armor. As he got undressed and re-dressed into non-damaged bits and pieces of the armor, he was able to confirm that this body was most definitely not his. This person was a martial combatant who had seen years of training, fighting, and rigor, as there were scars all along the forearms, shins, and backs of the hands.

A prominent, deep scar ran from his left shoulder down to his right mid-section, denoting some type of vicious injury that, Luke assumed, magical healing had fixed. He was also well-sculpted, with more muscle than he'd ever had before, though the flesh was a dark, steel grey color that was obviously not alive and healthy. Still, he was far more fit than before—in his body. [Name: Armor Familiarity 1.] [Power Type: Martial.] [Effect: The user is familiar with all types of armor and their use. They may wear any armor type, and after an adjustment period, are considered proficient with it. +1% damage resistance when wearing armor.] That was useful: his new body came with armor and weapon competence, at least to some extent. He assumed that was the force driving his body earlier when he had fought and killed the Necromancer. He had no clue how long the adjustment period would be, but knew he would find out eventually.

More importantly, one major failure point in survival had been solved—he was armed and wouldn't be helpless. Taking action was pushing back the feelings that had flooded him earlier. I don't look that Undead, Luke thought, as the fear of being killed on sight by anyone living faded to an afterthought like the other concerns that needed to be ignored for the time being. I bet if I make sure I breathe, keep covered, people won't even notice I'm not alive.

He was a bit agitated, because he did not find a helmet in the bunch of armor, and did not want to use the Necromancer's robes. The fact that there were no helmets seemed like an incredible oversight. But more importantly to him, he looked… somewhat normal? At least, from what he could tell without a mirror—he had no clue what his face looked like. Just from the body though? He felt like he could pass as a really pale, war-scarred veteran. OK... deity, I think I'm ready for whatever you have next. Nothing replied.

Luke took a breath and said, "Warden guy? Hello?" Nothing answered. Alright, Luke thought. It's not here. Maybe I can try this VITAE— The moment he thought the word, more messages appeared in the corner of his vision, and the voice spoke once more. [Name: Undead Creature.] [Power Type: Death.] [Effect: The user does not need to eat, drink, sleep, or breathe, and does not age. They take increased damage from Power Type: Holy and Life. They do not naturally regenerate Health. They gain Resistances and some Immunities. They can see perfectly in non-Power darkness.] That all makes sense, Luke thought. Also... not having to eat, drink, sleep, or breathe? If I can stay alive—well, keep persisting—then I could live forever. OK, is there anything else I should know right now? [Name: Enduring Soul 1.] [Power Type: Soul.] [Effect: The user's soul constantly regenerates, allowing recovery over time. This does not protect against total soul destruction.] [Special Notes: 1000 hours to regenerate soul fully.] Regenerating my soul? Interesting. Not sure what that's all about, but maybe some of this Necromancer's writings will help out. Luke knelt and began sorting through the various slips of paper and parchment pieces. Despite knowing the language—somehow it translated to English as he read it—he had no clue what any of the esoteric writings, phrases, and abstract shapes meant.

He began organizing them into piles that had a similar appearance: and took particular note that they fell into three design patterns—X-shaped squiggles, W-shaped curls, and spirals that were akin to vortexes. This must be the magic system, he thought. All of these might be spell scrolls? Instructions for spells? He stood up and walked over to the corpse pit, looking down at the bodies. I should probably bury them.

The circle beneath the corpses began glowing, and Luke grabbed the sword, drew it—clumsily, as he almost dropped it and had to grab the base of the blade above the hilt with his left hand to not fumble—and readied himself. The dead began twitching, moving, and stirring. This must be the untended energies that the deity mentioned, Luke thought. He said it was something to do with death— [Name: Corpse Retainer 1.] [Power Type: Death.] [Duration: Instant.] [Mana: 30.] [Stamina: 30.] [Effect: The user raises an Undead Creature under their Command.] As Luke stood there, staring at the corpses, he knew that he had an opportunity. He could get some help. Someone to watch his back, a person who could give him an extra set of hands. And yet, as he stood there, stock-still, not breathing and just staring, he knew that doing so would cross a threshold he wasn't sure he was ready to venture over quite yet.

He said to the ceiling, to whatever might be listening, "Is there anything else that I need to know?" [Title: Raise What Remains.] [Trigger: Unbound Power Type (Death) from a failed ritual permeates the area.] [Objective: Raise one Mindless Undead using Corpse Retainer.] [Reward: Level 4, Command display, Rank increase (Art).] Huh… alright. I must have been granted Levels from the earlier Quests. I doubt I'd start out at higher than Level 1.

The scrape of body on stone forced him to look past the words, and they flickered out of his sight. He could see the bodies writhing with more force as whatever remaining necromantic energies permeated the atmosphere and wrought some foul work. Luke shook his head and the words disappeared. He stared once more at the corpse pit, and knew exactly what he had to do. He watched the writhing bodies, looking for the one that was the most intact.

His best guess was that his Corpse Retainer was going to suck in the surrounding energy that must have been cast off when he was revived. It was all he had to go off of. He tried to sheath his sword, and the tip missed the opening. He tried again, and he was able to slide it back into place. He sent a glance back at the Necromancer's corpse, knowing he wasn't going to use it, but for a moment, he thought, what if this guy was just following a god's Quest as well?

Maybe the Necromancer had been following a Quest, but as Luke looked at the talisman, the corpses, and the ritual circle, the distinction became truly clear—if this person was receiving instructions, he didn't have to follow them. He had chosen to be a monster and, likely, murderer, given the fact that these slaughtered troops were obviously from some holy order, given the name and iconography.

Luke chose the most intact corpse he could find: male, mid-twenties, trained build, both legs present, hands undamaged, and skull intact. It was the most whole one he could find without deeper inspection like stripping the bodies to see if they were gutted—but he didn't have time for that. The bodies kept wriggling and started to move hands and feet. The sound of hollow moans reached Luke's ears as he knew time was short.

Luke dragged the corpse he had chosen out of the pile and put it onto a patch of stone-tiled floor that was separate from the other dead, not wanting to risk any type of misfire, mistargeting, or anything of that nature. He reactively held his left hand out, and felt that warmth well up in him again. There was less of it, but it was still there: potent, waiting for release.

"Does this do something bad to the soul?" he asked aloud.

"I don't want to make another me or break that Soul Law you talked about." [This does not breach Soul Law.] Taking a deep breath, unsure if he needed to say anything but feeling it would be right, he said, "Sorry for this... rise, Corpse Retainer."