Nelson leads me into what seems like a spare room. A table, a single chair and the door are all that remain within.
He hands me a piece of crumpled paper.
"First, I need you to prove your literacy by reading the words on the page," Nelson says, pointing at the top of the page.
"After seven days, when God fell upon the heavenly sky mountain, Esmereld, following the word of the Lord, descended from the holy mountain holding a carved tablet from the Almighty himself."
This sounds familiar. I wonder if moses exists in their mythos too.
"Upon it were inscribed the holy commandments of righteous order. Those who followed his words would transcend their limits as humans and serve the Lord's will. It was at this time the first house of Ascenders were born, hearing the only demand of their creator—'to eradicate the demon!'"
"Good enough. You can stop there," snatching the paper back, he doesn't even hazard me a look.
"Next is the numeracy test."
He slams the table surface with another sheet before I can even counter with a witty response.
"Here are the questions. Use the empty space as you see fit."
I glance down.
9 × 7 — well, that's just 63.
5 × 4 — that's an easy 20.
10 × 10 — everyone knows that's 100.
"Are you sure this is right?" These questions are too easy.
His eyes narrow. "Are you sure you didn't cheat? Many people can't figure out the last one due to its immense difficulty."
He looks down at my chest, standing over me.
"Then ask me one of your own questions then."
Grunting he walks to the other side of the room and picks up a quill.
"Answer me this." He points it at me. "What! Is the total price of moon-grass if we purchase 12 barrels worth at a going rate of 12 primstones per barrel excluding the cost of transportation."
"144, is the total summation of spent primstones on this transaction, and thus —"
"Enough! I get it. Silence."
He jots something down onto a notepad with that same quill.
"I'll just note that you are very competent in your numeracy then... Does this satisfy you."
No, not at all. But I don't tell him that.
"For now." I respond vaguely.
"Good. Now for your health check," He claps his hands.
Come again?
"You can come in now," he calls out.
Two figures enter the room—faces hidden beneath those familiar leathery masks and hollow eyes. One is a man, the other a woman, presumably, judging by their differing frames.
Plague doctor's. I wouldn't have thought I'd see them here.
The Girl carrying the suitcase places it in front of me. Next moment she opens with a click, revealing a circular crystal that lies within a padded cushion of velvet colour.
In holding the case open, I vaguely notice a faint patch of discoloured brown skin surrounding her wrist.
Noticing my gaze, she quickly pulls back her arm and covers it up. With her other hand, she takes off her black glove and touches the orb with five fingertips causing it to glow.
"Stand ready!" one orders.
"What do I have to do?" I ask.
"Stand ready!" the other answers demanding. Their voices speak in embalmed tones, wrapped and muffled in their masks of encased leather—due to this I cannot distinguish between their voices.
"The aura on the ball will react," one explains.
"We need you to place your hand on the ball. If it turns green, good. If it turns red… we must contain you."
"As a mort yourself, this is simply routine," the other sneers.
"And if I do happen to have the plague? What does that mean?" I ask, looking between them, unsure who I have to address.
Muffled whispering.
"This is no mortal's plague child. This is De'sin—demonic influence on the heretics. You will not speak its name lightly in our presence."
"When red it would mean you can't leave this unholy cage. Ever. In your entire life. That's all that you need to know," one says interjecting over the other.
A cackle, "But, you may try if you so desire… executed on trespass you will be. You don't want to surrender on the gift of life like that—not that you even matter much, you lowly one."
"Right, of course," I mutter.
I reach forward, placing my hand over the crystal ball.
A slight chill absorbs the warmth in my hand.
Light sputters surrounding the room in flickering light.
Then… Nothing
"That's… intriguing," one covered figure clicks their tongue. "You don't have any mana at all."
"What do you mean?"
"No mana usually means no life. Usually, you morts have at least some semblance of mana no, matter how unclean it is. But you—it's none. Like you shouldn't exist."
The other nods. "Undoubtedly, you are the most pitiful creature I have witnessed. This isn't merely 'low potential'; it is no potential. It is impossible for you to ever ascend towards the greatness of God—the runt of this forsaken litter you are."
I wasn't expecting an abnormal life anyway, even a second chance is a privilege.
"So, is all well then?!"
"I suppose so."
"For now."
They pack the case, quick, too quickly they close it shut without consideration of its contents.
Leaving, they shuffle through the open door and leave it open.
Gone as soon as they came.
"Well," Nelson breathes out after their departure. "You've all passed all the entry tests. I hereby appoint you as the vice-leader of the administration office."
"Vice-leader? Isn't that a bit much? I mean, the people outside, and now those two—they all don't like me."
"They can drown in their alcohol for all I care. As for those two, they don't like anyone here." Standing over me, he places a document on my desk.
"The real unspoken work is all conducted within this building—not the burning the corpses up front, but facilitating the documentation that needs proper handling. Thanks to your abilities, and your non-convict status, I will be able to handle more appropriate matters where I need. With my authority, I designate you as such."
"Convict status?"
"Has Jiord not already informed you?"
"Not much." I shake my head.
"Typical—getting me to handle all his work." He pulls out a single lens from his pocket and holds it around his eye.
"Let me explain this as simply as I can: many of the people here are classified as convicts. Thus, they are mandated by law to contribute to the corpse collection duty, for that is their punishment. That is one of the reasons personnel here are so unreliable—they have to do this obligation before all other priorities."
I nod along.
"If I'm going to be honest and transparent with you, Desmond, Not many people here can read. Fewer can write. And even fewer can do complex maths in their heads. You can do all three, and you're not a convict. That makes you reliable—dependable and suitable for this operational task."
He speaks with both heavy gravitas and the demeanor of an office grand-expert.
Pinching his quill, he signs the paper in cursive writing and hands it to me.
"This way." He leads me out the room and down a corridor, halting before a wooden door before turning to face me.
"Now please inform me, how was the funeral? The reception?" he Inquires.
"You weren't there?"
"Some of us were unable to attend because we actually have work to do, rather than loitering around and finding another excuse to drink."
His left foot pats on the floor. Silently, softly, adorned in that same bland sock—as if measuring the passage of time through a system of patting feet, waiting for a timely response.
Do I tell him about the others, no, that'll just ruin his day.
I clear my throat.
"It was everything Tim could have wanted,"
Pausing for a moment, his eyes chase at the arched ceiling.
"I see. At the end of the day, that's all that really matters." The baggage under his baggy eyes turns a lighter shade of grey.
Before he can speak further a bell chime rings throughout the building.
"I'm sorry—I must move on with greater haste now." He grabs a bronze key from his pocket and turns the handle, explaining.
"Each of the town's 6 faction heads has assistants who write and report for them, covering various aspects of their jurisdiction," he continues,
"Your current job is to read their concerns, the data, the information, and review them. Forward me the ones worth implementing, the concerns worth addressing, and so on. Then, at the end of each month, you'll compile the summaries and send them to the agency, with that unusual ability."
"That's a lot of responsibility to entrust to me."
You're going to regret this, Nelson. I already have many ideas.
"Well, frankly, I have little choice, not many others are capable. And besides—Jimson trusted you, and that's reason enough for me."
He opens the door. Inside: a lounge, a furnace, a table with draws, a paperweight, a chair, ink, and assortments of written parchment.
"Make sure you've reviewed all the documents on your desk by the end of the day."
He gestures to a tall stack—forty documents at least, and another forty on the couch.
Some late-night reading, is it? I'll be generous and considerate by actually reading these.
"Here, you have four coloured stamps on the table at your disposal," he explains, setting them neatly in a row.
"Red means denied. Green means approved. Yellow means reconciled—that's when you've handled the matter using your authority. Make sure to explain in the attached addendum. Blue means the report is pending; this means it can't be processed at this stage.
If you mark something as (Pending), make sure to cite the reasons clearly in the attached addendum for why this is the case."
He slides the yellow stamp aside slightly.
"Now the rules:
Never, use yellow or blue on anything marked High Priority.
Those are proposals. You don't make decisions on proposals; you only assess them against the criteria listed on the docket to your left. If a [High priority] file doesn't meet those standards—for example, grammar, formatting, or consistency with its referenced documents—you simply reject it with red. It will get sent back down to the town heads for further reconsideration, so don't concern yourself with the details.
Again making sure to state the reason on the attached addendum why you have declared it as such."
He taps at the desk.
"[Medium Priority] items are inquiries. You can manage those yourself. Stamp red if you reject the claim, green if you accept it, blue if you're waiting on a further follow-up, and yellow if you've already resolved the issue internally, or have investigated the situation yourself and concluded it."
Finally, he gestures to the stack of thin brown files lying under a glass paperweight at the end.
"[Low Priority] documents are reports—routine submissions. Handle them with the same care as you would inquiries. The system remains the same, red for rejection, green for acceptance, blue for pending and yellow for reconciliation.
Keep them neat, keep them clean, and make sure every stamp matches your written editorial note in the addendum. That's all anyone reviewing will really check.
If not, you'll only make our jobs harder."
He folds his arms.
"Simple enough, right? I have work to do, so if you have any questions, please follow up with Jan at the front desk. Just read those reports on the couch for reference. Welcome to the administration board, Vice-Leader."
He has a hand out, key in his palm. We clasp hands, then he leaves me to my lonesome in this office room.