Chương 56: Chapter 4: Ancestral Crypt

The walk back up to his bedchamber was a testament to the utter uselessness of Jack's new body. He leaned almost his entire weight onto the brass-headed cane, his left hand gripping the freezing iron banister of the staircase tightly. Every single step was like a victory. He would plant the rubber-less tip of the cane, drag his stiff left leg up, brace his shaking thighs, and then haul his right foot to join it. On the third landing, his lungs suddenly seized.

Jack collapsed against the cold stone wall, his forehead resting on the rough masonry. A violent coughing fit tore through him. He squeezed his eyes shut, clutching his chest as the stagnant energy in his Grey Core flared, sending a wave of icy needles through his collarbones. He pulled his sleeve to his mouth, catching the dark, thick fluid that forced its way up his throat. When the fit finally passed, he stared at the dark stain on his gray cuff. It wasn't just blood anymore.

It was dark, almost blackish-red, and it felt unnaturally cold to the touch. The unvented death mana was pooling in his chest like stagnant swamp water. If he didn't find a way to let it flow, his own body would freeze from the inside out before the villagers ever had a chance to starve.

"My Lord!" Karen's voice echoed from the bottom of the stairs. She was running up, her oversized boots clacking loudly, her face twisted in terror as she saw him slumped against the wall.

"I am fine, Karen," Jack gasped, his voice barely a whisper. He raised a hand to stop her, though even that small gesture made his arm tremble.

"Just… lost my footing."

"You shouldn't have gone down there!" she scolded, her eyes welling with tears as she reached his side. She immediately tried to wedge her small shoulder under his armpit to support him.

"The hall is a drafty icebox, and those people… they don't understand how sick you are. They are selfish, Lord Jack. They only think of their own hearths."

"They think of their children, Karen," Jack said, allowing her to help him take the final few steps toward his bedchamber.

"A lord who cannot keep his people warm is no lord at all."

"But to promise them coal in two days?" Karen let out a soft, miserable sob as she pushed his bedroom door open.

"The mines are sealed. Even Giles won't go near them. How can we find coal?"

"I have a plan," Jack said, his voice flat and steady.

"But for it to work, I need absolute quiet. I need to rest, Karen. No interruptions. No matter what noises you hear from this room, you must not enter. Do you understand?" Karen looked at him, her lips trembling. She clearly wanted to argue, to sit by his bed and press damp cloths to his forehead all night, but the sheer, intensity in his pale eyes silenced her.

"I… I understand, My Lord," she whispered, lowering her head.

"I will chop the wet wood in the courtyard. I will make sure no one disturbs you."

"Thank you, Karen. Go get some rest yourself." Jack stepped into his room, closed the oak door, and slid the iron bolt into place. The loud clack of the metal lock felt like the final barrier between him and the rest of the world. He was entirely alone. The room was freezing, the air so cold that his nose felt numb. The wind outside slammed against the wooden shutters, making the glass less, rag-stuffed panes rattle in their frames. The noise was deafening, a constant, low roar of howling wind and pelting sleet.

"Good," Jack thought, leaning heavily on his cane as he surveyed the room." The storm will drown out whatever noise I make." According to the memories of the old John Frost-Grip, the founders of the family had built the castle directly over the ancient burial vaults. In the early days, when the Frost-Grips openly practiced the Grey Arts to defend the northern borders, the reigning lord maintained a direct, private entrance to the crypts from his personal chambers.

Over the generations, as the imperial capital began to demonize necromancy, the family had hidden the entrance, covering it up to avoid the prying eyes of royal inquisitors. Jack walked to the corner of the room, his eyes scanning the dusty, peeling wallpaper and the cracked stone floor. He stopped in front of a massive, half-rotted bear-skin rug. The fur was patchy, stiff with decades of accumulated grime, and smelled faintly of mildew and old grease.

It was tucked partially beneath a oak wardrobe that looked as if it hadn't been moved in fifty years. Jack gritted his teeth. He hooked the curved handle of his cane into a tear in the leather backing of the rug and pulled. Nothing happened. The rug was incredibly heavy, virtually frozen to the stone floor.

"Come on," Jack muttered, wrapping both hands around the cane and leaning his entire body weight backward. With a loud, tearing sound, the rug shifted an inch. Dust exploded from the ancient fur, sending Jack into another brief coughing fit. He clamped his jaw shut, refusing to let the noise escape, and pulled again. Inch by inch, he dragged the stiff leather away from the corner, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

Beneath the rug, covered in a thick layer of grey dirt, lay a massive iron ring. Jack knelt down, his knees popping painfully on the hard stone. He used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe away the grime, revealing a heavy, circular stone slab set flush with the floorboards. The seam was incredibly tight, sealed with a greyish metal that Jack recognized instantly. This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience. Runes.

Three intricate, interlocking symbols were etched into the iron border surrounding the stone. They were faded, their silver luster long tarnished into a dark, leaden grey, but the magical structure remained intact. It was a blood-lock, designed to respond only to the direct lineage of the Frost-Grip family. Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, silver sewing pin he had swiped from Karen's basket earlier. He didn't hesitate.

He pressed the sharp point into the pad of his left thumb, pushing until a bead of dark, thick blood welled up. He smeared his thumb directly over the central rune. For a long, tense second, nothing happened. The room remained bitterly cold, the wind continuing to hammer against the shutters. Then, a faint, clicking sound echoed from beneath the stone. The tarnished silver lines of the runes suddenly flared with a pale blue light.

The light was cold, devoid of any heat, but as it spread through the stone, the dark blood on the rune dissolved, turning into a fine, grey vapor that was instantly absorbed by the metal. With a heavy, grinding groan, the stone slab began to sink. Jack scrambled backward, his cane clattering to the floor as the circular door dropped three inches into the ground and then slid slowly into a hidden recess in the wall. A draft of absolute, ancient cold rushed out of the opening.

Jack braced himself, expecting to gasp, but as the freezing air hit his face, a strange sensation washed over him. The tight, burning agony in his chest suddenly vanished. The stagnant, suffocating pressure in his lungs cleared, replaced by a deep, incredibly soothing sensation. It was like a man dying of thirst finally taking a long drink of cool, clean water. His Grey Core spun. The core was no longer a dormant, frozen block. It was actively drinking.

The ambient death mana trapped in the sealed crypts for over a century was incredibly pure, and Jack's body was absorbing it like a dry sponge. He sat on the edge of the opening, his legs dangling into the dark. The rattling in his chest was completely gone. For the first time since his transmigration, he felt a genuine flicker of physical strength returning to his limbs.

"So this is death magic," Jack whispered, a faint, cold smile touching his lips.

"It's not a curse. It's my fuel." He picked up a small, half-burned tallow candle from his bedside table, struck a spark using a rusted iron flint, and shielded the tiny, flickering flame with his palm. Holding the candle in one hand and his cane in the other, he began his descent. The stairs were carved directly into the dark bedrock of the mountain. They were narrow, steep, and slick with a thin glaze of ice.

Jack took his time, placing his feet sideways on each step, his eyes fixed on the small circle of light cast by his candle. The walls were rough and completely silent. The howling of the blizzard above slowly faded, replaced by an oppressive quiet that felt almost sacred. At the bottom of the steps, the shaft opened into a vast subterranean chamber. Jack held the candle high, but the light could barely penetrate the deep shadows.

He could make out rows of stone sarcophagi lining the walls, each one carved with the stern, frozen likenesses of past Frost-Grip lords. These were the true ancestors—the high mages of old. Their tombs were heavily sealed, bound by powerful defensive wards that Jack had no intention of messing with. He was not here to desecrate his family. He walked deeper into the crypt, his cane tapping softly against the stone floor. The air smelled of dry dust, old stone, and the faint, sweet scent of mineral salt.

In the far corner of the vault, past the grand tombs of the nobility, the ceiling dipped lower. Here, the walls were lined with simple, open stone niches. This was the guards' rest. In the early centuries, the loyal soldiers who died defending the pass were laid to rest alongside their lords. They had been buried in cheap, pine boxes. Over the last hundred years, the wood had completely rotted away, leaving nothing but neat piles of white bones resting on stone shelves or scattered across the floor.

Jack approached one of the niches. He set his candle down on a flat ledge and looked at the pile of bones before him. The skeleton was mostly intact, though the wooden coffin that once held it had collapsed, leaving the ribs partially crushed under the weight of a fallen lid. Jack knelt in the dust, his hands hovering over the skull.

"You've been resting a long time," Jack said softly.

"It's time to get back to work." He closed his eyes and focused on the Grey Core in his chest. Now that his lungs were clear, he could feel the energy with perfect clarity. It was a cold, swirling pool of dark grey mana. He took a deep breath, reaching out with his mind, and began to pull a tiny thread of that energy outward. He guided the mana down his shoulders, through his thin arms, and into his fingertips. A pale, blue-gray vapor began to drift from his hands, flowing downward like heavy fog.

The vapor pooled around the scattered bones, clinging to the dry, white marrow. Jack felt a sudden, sharp pull on his mind. It wasn't painful, but it felt as though a thin, taut wire had been anchored directly to his soul, extending outward to touch the skeleton. Clack. A single finger bone twitched. Jack concentrated, pushing more mana through the link. The blue-gray vapor grew thicker, wrapping around the joints like invisible, ghostly tendons. Rattle.

The ribs began to slide together, lifting themselves out of the rotted pine dust. The vertebrae clicked into place, one by one, forming a straight, rigid column. The leg bones slid into the hip sockets with a scraping sound, and the skull rose, settling onto the neck. With a soft thud, the skeleton stood up. It was roughly five feet ten inches tall, missing three ribs on its left side. Its bones were aged, stained a dull ivory color by time and dampness.

Its left hand was different from the right, the bones of the fingers were stained a deep, dark orange-brown—rust from the iron hilt of the sword it had been buried with. The skeleton stood perfectly still, its empty eye sockets staring directly at Jack. Jack slowly rose to his feet, leaning on his cane. He felt a distinct, steady drain on his chest. It was incredibly small—like a tiny drip of water from a leaky faucet—but it was continuous.

As long as the skeleton was animated, it would require a constant, passive trickle of his mana to remain standing.

"Can you hear me?" Jack asked mentally. He didn't speak aloud. Instead, he projected the thought through the thin, spiritual wire connecting their minds. The skeleton's head gave a quick, jerky tilt to the left. The jawbone clicked open and shut once, a clack echoing in the quiet vault. It didn't have vocal cords, but the mental acknowledgement was instantaneous.

"Good," Jack said.

"Your left hand is stained with iron. I will call you Rusty." Rusty did not react to the name, but the link stabilized, the mental weight of the connection settling into a comfortable, rhythmic pulse. Jack decided to test the limits of its intelligence. He pointed toward his candle sitting on the stone ledge.

"Pick up the candle," Jack commanded mentally.

"Carefully." Rusty turned his skull toward the ledge. He took two steps forward. His movements were slightly stiff, his bony feet scraping loudly against the stone. He reached out with his right hand, his ivory fingers wrapping around the small tallow candle. He lifted it. He didn't drop it, and his grip was surprisingly steady.

"Excellent," Jack muttered.

"Now, follow me." Jack turned and began walking back toward the stairs. Rusty followed immediately, matching his slow, hobbling pace. The clattering of bony feet on the stone steps was loud, but to Jack, it was the most beautiful sound in the world. He had his first worker. Skeletons didn't freeze. They didn't complain. And they didn't require food.