"So… this is the afterlife."
Merek muttered the words beneath his breath, the chill in the air turning each syllable into a wisp of mist that danced before fading. He stood on a lonely cobbled street beneath a sky smeared with ribbons of iridescent color, like oil upon water. Above it all loomed a vast red moon, swollen and watchful.
The air was cold—biting, spectral. It tugged at his bones, nudging him forward with unseen fingers. His gaze rose to the building ahead: a two-storey structure that looked torn from the 14th century, with aged timber walls and a steep gabled roof. Faded paint curled along its edges, and iron-framed windows glimmered dimly in the moonlight.
A wooden signboard hung askew above the entrance, its letters carved deep.
Morrow's End.
Merek hesitated only a moment before stepping closer. The door creaked open as if anticipating him. The moment he crossed the threshold, the cold withdrew. Warmth met him—not the dry comfort of firelight, but something subtler. Silken. Enveloping. Like slipping into memory.
The interior was spare but deliberate. Several high-backed chairs, crafted of dark wood and deep green velvet, stood arranged in quiet formation—all facing the receptionist's desk, which gleamed as though it had been lacquered with moonlight.
Behind it sat a woman.
Or something that resembled one.
She was still, poised like a portrait come to life. Her skin was pale, but not lifeless—luminous, like moonlight reflecting off fresh snow. Silver hair, smooth and silken, spilled over her shoulders and down her back, glinting faintly in the soft amber glow of unseen lamps. Her face held a sculpted perfection, too flawless for comfort, as if drawn by the memory of a dream rather than the hand of nature.
Then she lifted her gaze.
Her eyes were crimson—deep, liquid, and dangerous. They caught his own and held them, and in that instant, Merek felt the breath still in his chest. Not from fear, but from recognition.
She was not human.
And whatever she was… she had been waiting.
A slow, knowing smile curved her lips. "I am Veyra, the shopkeeper." Her voice was smooth as velvet, edged with something ancient. "What would you like to purchase… weaver?"
Merek blinked. "You know my job?"
Veyra nodded. "I do. You're just at level 1 so I shall allow you to purchase all you need at the promise that you'll pay later."
"You want to bet it all on a promise?" Merek tilted his head.
Veyra smiled, one that held deep meaning. An unsettling one. "Of course. If you fail to pay, I shall add your soul and memories to the collection we have here."
"Fair enough." From the moment he gained his job, muscle memory on how weaving worked had developed inside of him so passively that it seemed like nothing of worth went on all this while.
Now that the situation called for it, it burst out. He had knowledge of what he needed. Yuki would be compatible with a light armour and a longsword.
Maybe a cloak and a plume would add nicely to her overall look. Without knowing a mental image was slowly built in his mind, his skills as an artist and knowledge of his weaver job working in tandem.
Firstly, this armour body could not be like normal armour. It needed weight.
"What quality of steel do you have?"
"What you can currently afford is Medium carbon steel."
"Give me 30. What materials do you have for a cloak and a plume?"
"I have a Blood horse mane and a cloak made from soul silk harvested from hollow looms. What more do you need? Memory orbs?"
From the knowledge he had about weaving, he knew memory orbs were memories extracted from souls.
If he were to buy the 10 years memory of a great fighter, the soul he bonded to that very armour would gain that knowledge but he was dealing with a 500 years old sword maiden.
A woman who was no stranger to fighting.
"I don't need a memory orb. How much will all these cost?"
"25 essence core if it's below level 5. Above 10 essence cores." Veyra replied.
"How long do I have to pay?!" Merek asked. It was better to be safe than sorry.
"One day."
….
A tear appeared inside his apartment and Merek walked out of it and dropped the materials he purchased on the ground.
Yuki watched him search the apartment for a pen and paper before he sat on the ground and began to sketch.
It looked like nothing but messed up lines and colouring but after a while, a menacing image of armour appeared.
Merek exhaled.
The hard part was about to begin. His intense focus was because time wasn't on his side on every side.
His class was also a support one so the only chance at survival and growth was making sure he had an armoured undead swords maiden by his side before any of the countdown hits zero.
Like before, he exhaled a couple of times before stretching his hands towards the ingots. One by one, they rose from the ground, glowing faintly. They melted in the air, responding to his will, floating up and twisting midair as though gravity itself had bowed to his intent.
He molded and wove them, shaping them with flicks of his wrist and subtle movements of his fingers. It was demanding—mind-straining—but wondrous.
Just as he began, Yuki accepted the contract.
Her soul was drawn into him—and suddenly, his mind was awash with memory.
Images of her training flooded in: a bamboo forest, wind slicing through trees, the rhythm of endless forms and strikes.
It guided him.
He worked the Blood Horse mane into the helmet, letting it cascade like a crimson war-braid. The strands were lush yet resilient, a fierce contrast against the cold steel. It wasn't just protection—it was identity.
He gave special attention to the gauntlets, crafting the fingers with meticulous care. They had to be nimble—fluid—capable of any sword style Yuki might unleash.
At the waist, he sculpted a subtle, elegant curve that swept into articulated leg plates, careful not to restrict movement. Then came the battle skirt, torn from the oversized cloak and frayed just right to appear war-worn—like it had seen hundreds of battlefields and refused to fall.
When it was complete, a six-foot-tall armor stood before him—grey and grim, crowned with a flowing red plume that reached the waist. A longsword rested by its side—five kilograms of tempered steel.
Eighty kilograms in total!
As Merek admired the armour, Yuki was forced out of him by an unseen force and into the armour.
There were long vertical slits across the length of the helm's face. The darkness behind the slits was illuminated by two pale white orbs.
A sudden chill swept through the room, like death itself had taken stage. With a slow crank, the armour moved its head to the left and… to the right.
And then, it lifted up the sword and performed a swift horizontal swing, so fast that Merek couldn't follow.
"How do you feel there?" Sweat coated his face but the excitement of his creation burned like fire, washing away the weariness of his exhaustion.
Yuki took a step back, went on one knee, her clawed metallic fingers wrapped around the sword's hilt as she lowered her head.