The Skeleton Soldier Failed to Defend the Dungeon

Isaac clicked his beak against the page.

”Here. Someone pried it open and wedged a new sheet in.”

I bent closer, studying the parchment carefully, knowing that what one saw depended less on the object itself and more on the observer.

Whatever those red crow’s eyes had caught, I couldn’t.

Isaac, used to my blank looks, explained, ”It was soaked deliberately, then dried deliberately. The wrinkles are different from natural aging. The more I stare at it, the more certain I am.”

Rubia glanced at me, then turned to Christina at her side.

”Would you mind keeping watch at the door? Just in case.”

”Right... now?”

”Yes.”

”But...”

”He’s the one who sent you to me in the first place, right? No one would guard me better.”

A flicker of conflict passed across Christina’s face, then she gave a short nod and stepped outside.

Startled by the sudden dismissal, I looked to Rubia.

She only smiled, and her voice brushed against my mind. ”This... is how you do it, right?”

”How do you know that?” I asked aloud.

”Because I... remembered.”

I linked Isaac and Rubia together. They already knew how to use me as a medium for thought.

”It’s been a while, hasn’t it, Mr. Crow? Or... should I say, nice to see you again?”

”...”

Isaac turned away, beak snapping closed, pretending she wasn’t there. It might have been guilt or the memory of killing her once, but knowing him... that was too generous a reading.

Rubia didn’t seem to care and continued naturally, ”You were discussing this page, weren’t you?”

”Yes.”

”Then you must have noticed it was swapped in.”

”Were you always this sharp?”

”It isn’t difficult. The spine was melted and reattached here.”

For once, Isaac looked at her with open favor. ”Better than you, at least.”

”Are you falling for her?”

I meant it as a jab, but he nodded seriously.

”She’s my type. Someone who can suffer endlessly without losing her humanity, who endures to the bitter end. Strong.”

”...”

”That doesn’t sound like a compliment...”

Of course it wasn’t. I quickly glanced at her status window. As a Level 4 Archivist, she was stronger than she had been before. If both she and Isaac agreed the parchment had been altered, then it must have been.

But why?

”Would anyone bother faking their hair color? What’s the point of that?” I asked.

Rubia answered without hesitation. ”Bloodline. If it wasn’t every emperor, but only the founding one with an altered description, then the Empire’s claim to legitimacy collapses. The Empire began with Seiron I, the man who supposedly saved humanity from the Apostles. If his bloodline never continued...”

I finished her thought. ”Then Seiron I may not have been silver-haired at all.”

”Exactly. And yet every emperor since, regardless of their mothers, is described as having silver hair. They claim it’s a mark of lineage, but it stinks of deceit. Keep reading.”

I turned one page, then another.

Thump.

When I reached the final page, I half-expected some reward. However, no Wisdom stat rose, nor did I receive a hidden gain. This wasn’t by Ashton under a false name. This book just shared history, plain and brittle.

I closed the book. ”Do you still have the necromancy manuscript that was tucked in here?”

That manuscript was the very one that had raised me. I wanted to see the original. Even if I missed something, perhaps Isaac wouldn’t.

”Do I... have to...” Rubia hesitated, cheeks coloring.

”Why the coy act?”

Is she hiding something?

Her reluctance only sharpened my curiosity.

Rip.

Rubia slipped a blade into the hem of her skirt, pried at a seam, and drew out a slim bundle of parchment. She handed it to me.

”Here. Ever since that day, I’ve kept it hidden.”

”This is what taught you necromancy?”

”Not taught, exactly. I just... followed it.”

The so-called manuscript was thin, barely a handful of pages, making it hardly worthy of being called instructions. Its instructions rambled about calling a skeleton to aid the caster.

Shwiff.

Three pages in, I frowned. ”This is... the spell?”

Rubia ducked her head, embarrassed. ”Yes.”

Mix the following phrases as you see fit.

O dead one!

I have awakened you!

Can you hear my voice?

It is a pleasure to meet you!

Would you look this way?

Add one more line to suit your mood.

That is all. Then the dead shall rise from the grave as your most faithful companion.

If you doubt this effective charm, chant the following at the manuscript itself, to build trust in me.

Dance!

And the manuscript shall dance. Just once. Any more would be embarrassing.

Isaac’s voice cut in sharply, leaving no room for debate. ”What kind of nonsense is this?”

I couldn’t disagree with his reaction.

Is this what really raised me?

”Is something wrong?”

”Who wrote something like this here?”

Isaac looked serious.

I asked curiously, ”Did by any chance... the dance...”

Rubia was red from embarrassment, but she answered clearly. ”When I shouted dance, the manuscript danced. That’s why I believed it.”

I turned to Isaac. ”Could this spell... actually work?”

”Impossible.”

”Explain.”

His beak clicked, his tone suddenly grave. ”Necromancy isn’t my specialty, but the principles are the same. This world has a surface and a substrate. Think of it as webs upon webs, billions of strands. Touch the right one beneath, and something shifts above. That is the essence of every mystery. The greater the mage, the faster and more precisely they can pluck the threads.”

I remembered his old parable of magicians as spiders weaving wards. Now he described the world itself as a web.

”...”

”Try covering your sword in ice.”

Without quite realizing it, I obeyed.

Ksshhkk!

Frost bloomed across bare steel, spreading outward with a chill that could freeze the air.

Rubia gasped softly. ”Ah...”

Her surprise was plain. To her, this must have been sorcery, but Isaac wasn’t done.

”Now change the ice into fire.”

”You want me to conjure fire?”

”No, turn the ice into fire without spilling a single drop of water.”

That was impossible. I had never seen a mage perform such a thing. I shook my skull, already knowing it couldn’t be done.

Isaac only nodded, as if he’d expected that answer. ”If you can pluck just three or four threads precisely, it’s possible. Judging from the amount of Lurium inside you, you’ve the strength to pull ten. You’ve survived this long not because of finesse, but because your raw power compensates for your lack of control.”

So my magic can grow far beyond this?

However, I decided to prioritize Rubia first.

”So what does that mean about the manuscript?” I asked Isaac.

”That necromancy ends with a chant? Without training to sense the threads or education in perception, spells are nothing more than surface decorations. They change nothing. Nothing from the dead would rise from such shallow tugging.”

I recalled how Isaac had always strung nonsense verses together for his own incantations.

”But Rubia did raise me. The first time... our timings overlapped perfectly.”

Each regression had shifted the timing slightly, but the first awakening and her arrival at my grave had been exact. I couldn’t separate the two.

”That means the amount of magic in this spell is more than even I can manage.”

Even Isaac?

A question slipped out. ”How many threads have you pulled, then?”

I had meant it as mockery. I’d already seen what he could do, even in his sealed state. But the crow looked at me with a level gaze.

”I... went beneath them.”

”Beneath?”

”Threads cross and knot, you see. I tried to dig into the region where the rules themselves are preserved.”

Though he didn’t answer my question, it was enough to tell me he’d gone far past merely plucking threads.

”And?”

”The moment I pierced it, I was flung back with all my strength stripped away.”

”You said it was the curse of the three goddesses, for turning a temple into a brothel.”

”As if. The gods never intervene directly. They only observe whatever happens inside. Haven’t you seen high priests keep seven-year-old boys by their side, yet they still receive oracles without issue?”

”...”

”But Ashton... I feel like he knew the beneath far deeper than I ever did. That’s why I search for him.”

Flap!

Isaac hopped onto my left shoulder and tapped the manuscript with his beak.

”I smell him here, too. To lace raw words with power, that lies closer to the beneath.”

”...”

I glanced at Rubia. ”Are there any other books by Kevin Ashton here?”

”No. Just this one. They’re rare...”

So she’d only read that one. Yet somehow, Ashton’s books always found their way into my hands. I recalled the two volumes in the cart before the ossuary, where Rena had been held captive.

On the World’s Unofficial Armed Groups, Vol. 1

The Ugly Mage.

Then I also encountered Lime’s three books:

The Collected Works of Kevin Ashton, Vol. 4

The Collected Works of Kevin Ashton, Vol. 17

Kevin Ashton and the Lusty Slime Maid

A bawdy trifle and two volumes of hollow self-praise. Why Lime had kept the last one, I decided not to dwell on. The next book was...

The Grand Mage Trapped in the Cracks of Time.

The book was about a meditation on whether only he possessed the mind. It had given me a unique perk and a leap in Wisdom. And then there was another one...

If You Wish to Kill a Troll.

That was the cabin book I still carried, telling me to find the broken fragments. Its final page now read 3/7. I remembered the autumn sunlight through the window the day I’d first opened it, before the cursed encounter with the marquis. I recalled the yellow journal in the capital, and now this necromancy manuscript.

Kevin Ashton’s books... Are they guiding me somewhere?

I stroked the frayed edge of the parchment and slowly turned the next page.

Flip.

There was nothing written there.

Flip. Flip!

I flipped through three empty pages in a row. I let out a hollow breath and snapped the manuscript closed.

Ding!

[Wisdom has increased by 1.]

”This...”

Before I could form the words, Isaac cut me off. ”Are you certain that this was Ashton?”

I nodded slowly.

Suddenly, the blanks at the back spread forward like spilled ink. The void seeped across the paper, devouring the childish chants, line by line. Not a single mark was spared.

Crack.

What remained was parchment, dry and pale, empty of every trace.

I stared, stunned.

At last, Isaac said in a hushed voice, ”Did it... fulfill its purpose?”