Chapter 2 – The Bloody Resurrection of Bones
Crack!
[You've been struck by a medieval inquisitor's whip. Subcutaneous bruising to chest +1]
Crack!
[You've been struck by a medieval inquisitor's whip. Subcutaneous bruising to chest +1]
Craaaack!
[You've been struck by a medieval inquisitor's whip. Subcutaneous bruising to chest +1]
...
[After multiple attacks, your injuries have worsened. Left pectoral muscle slightly torn.]
"@#￥#@%*—!"
The bearded executioner barked something guttural and indecipherable as his bloodstained whip lashed through the air again. Each strike ripped through the dimly lit dungeon, searing Charles's skin with agony.
And in the corner of his vision—
lines of glowing characters scrolled upward, familiar yet alien, transparent but impossible to ignore.
If he weren't being tortured, he might've marveled at the surreal sight of a floating screen in front of him.
But right now, all he could think was—
"What the hell is this?!"
Yes, he knew he was hurt. Yes, it was painful.
But did this… whatever-it-was really need to announce it out loud?!
The flickering firelight painted his face in red and shadow. Each time the whip landed, his body jerked against the iron restraints, muscles flexing beneath sweat and blood. His upper torso was slick, the mixture of sweat and blood making his skin gleam beneath the torchlight—his broad chest marred by crisscrossing welts.
How did it come to this again?
Ah, right—he'd dived through that mysterious bronze door to escape the police.
And on the other side… was another world entirely.
A world of iron-clad knights and robed monks.
A medieval world.
For a brief, foolish moment, he'd even wondered:
Would there be castles and captive princesses here? Dragons? Magic?
If only.
Reality had smacked him—quite literally—the moment he arrived.
The "door" had opened into thin air. He'd fallen straight out of the sky.
If it had just been a nasty fall, he could've handled a few broken bones. But no. He'd crash-landed right in front of what looked like some golden-haired noble's entourage. A prince, maybe? Surrounded by armed knights?
The language barrier made everything worse—he couldn't explain a damn thing. And before he could even stand, they'd tackled him, tied him up, and dragged him down into this stinking dungeon for interrogation.
If that vagrant's corpse hadn't cushioned his fall, he might've been too broken to even scream right now.
But honestly? Whether broken or not, being whipped like this was still pure hell.
"So this is what they mean by escaping the wolf's den only to fall into the tiger's jaws," he thought grimly.
Biting down on his lip, Charles endured the lashes in silence.
He'd already gone through the full range of reactions: begging, cursing, screaming, incoherent babbling. Now, there was only exhaustion.
The inquisitors clearly wanted him to confess something—but since he couldn't understand a word they said, even a false confession was impossible.
And maybe they'd realized that too, because the man wielding the whip now wore a look of detached amusement. His strikes had lost rhythm, turning into lazy, almost playful swings.
Not torture for information.
Just… entertainment.
Charles's eyes narrowed. Rage welled up inside him—rage at his helplessness, at the injustice, at being treated like an animal.
He'd gone from a human being to a spectacle.
A bloody sideshow for bored sadists.
But bound as tightly as he was—spread like a crucified saint—his fury was useless. He couldn't even curse them properly; the words would mean nothing to them anyway.
So what was the point?
In the end, the torturer's strikes grew half-hearted, and Charles's silence became heavy. The only sounds left in the cramped stone chamber were the dull crack of leather and—faintly—from the corner—another interrogator's snores.
Yes. One of them had fallen asleep.
There were only two men here: both unshaven, wearing coarse linen shirts.
And aside from them…
No one else.
No one alive, at least.
Out of the corner of his eye, Charles caught sight of a shadowed corner to his left.
There, on a soot-stained iron table, lay a body—a man with wide, glassy eyes, staring straight at him as if waiting for this new unfortunate soul to join him on the road to hell.
It was that corpse.
The vagrant his body's previous owner had strangled back home—
the same one that had fallen through the portal with him into this cursed world.
[A fresh corpse: Male, age 30–40. Death accompanied by intense pain and resentment.]
A line of text flickered in Charles's vision. It made his skin crawl… but also oddly comforted him.
Apparently, not everything in this nightmare world was bad. At least he had gained something—
this strange, "system-like" ability.
It might have come from that bronze door, or it might have awakened naturally when he crossed worlds—either way, Charles had realized that whenever he looked at something, or was struck, information appeared before his eyes like glowing subtitles.
When he looked at himself, for instance—
[Name: Charles Cranston]
[Age: 16]
[Health Status: Stable, minor injuries worsening]
[Skills: Eye of True Sight (Passive), Bone Resurrection (1/100%)]
[Remaining Time in This World: 5:12:37.45]
The last two digits flickered rapidly, while the middle pair ticked steadily every second.
Hours, minutes, seconds—
He understood now: in about five hours, he could summon that mysterious door again.
But… how was he supposed to use it?
He couldn't even move.
Could he call the door to appear above him? Wrap him in its light and vanish?
Nice idea—but he doubted he had that kind of control.
And more importantly… would he even survive five hours?
He thought of the instruments of torture lining the walls, and a chill ran through him.
The whips were just the appetizer.
Sure enough, after a few more lashes, the executioner tossed the whip aside, scowling in boredom. He turned toward a brazier glowing red with heated irons.
Charles's heart dropped into his stomach.
This was it.
If only he could communicate!
He didn't care if he had to confess to attacking the blond noble, or even to plotting regicide—anything, if it could make them stop.
But no matter how he tried, his words meant nothing.
Different worlds, different tongues.
"So… I just have to take it?"
He grimaced. He wasn't sure he had the courage to watch his own flesh char and smell it cooking. He didn't want to find out.
But reality wasn't waiting for him to decide.
The torturer picked up a glowing iron, grinning, and started toward him.
Three meters. Two. One.
Charles's pulse thundered in his ears, his heart slamming like a drum.
And then—
A bell rang.
The crisp jingle shattered the silence.
The second inquisitor, who had been snoring in the corner, jolted awake. He wiped the drool from his mouth, yawned, and stumbled toward the door.
The torturer paused, then—clicking his tongue—set the iron back into the brazier. His grin returned, twisted with excitement. Whatever was happening outside seemed far more entertaining than finishing his "work."
They both left.
For a long moment, Charles didn't move. Then, with a sharp exhale, he sagged in relief, chest heaving.
"They're gone… for now."
Dinner bell? Shift change? Who cared.
The only thing that mattered was that he finally had a chance.
If I'm going to act, it has to be now.
But… what could he do?
His hands and feet were bound tight in leather straps, leaving not even a sliver of space. He struggled, pulling with all his strength—but aside from making the wooden post creak, it was useless.
He stared down at himself, thinking.
The "Eye of True Sight" must have been the ability showing him all these status messages. The other skill—Bone Resurrection—was more mysterious.
From the name alone, it sounded like some kind of necromancy.
A skill to summon skeletons.
"But I never learned anything like that… did I?"
The original Charles had studied some forbidden rituals from that notebook, yes—but had never successfully used one.
So why did the "system" think he had this skill now?
"Could it have been… granted to me, like the Eye?"
Only one way to find out.
Charles drew a deep breath and focused on the corpse in the corner.
He whispered in his mind:
Bone Resurrection.
Nothing happened.
He tried again.
And again.
Silence.
"Okay, clearly I'm missing something."
He opened his "status" again.
[Bone Resurrection (1/100%)]
As he stared at it, faint knowledge bubbled up from the depths of his mind—scraps of memory from the body's previous owner.
He understood.
"It's not some game system. It's a reflection of what I can do."
The previous owner had tried this ritual—and failed. But the knowledge remained in the body.
Now, it recognized him as capable.
Which meant… maybe he could finish what the fool had started.
It was worth a shot.
His mind replayed the fragments of memory—ritual steps, strange phrases, an object of focus. He had that too: a black pendant around his neck, one the original Charles had crafted for his experiments.
He tilted his chin downward, dragging it out with his jaw, then bit the pendant and lifted it into view. The effort left him panting from pain and exhaustion.
"Good thing they didn't find this when they searched me," he muttered between gasps. "If they'd taken it… I'd have no chance."
The pendant was shaped like a miniature black skull. He positioned it over his left eye, took a long breath, and focused.
Clear your mind.
Visualize the shape.
Let it fill you.
Then he began to chant, his voice low and trembling:
"In the name of Charles Cranston, I call upon the dead."
"Born of this curse, end in its shadow."
"Nameless one who died in agony…"
"Rise, and serve me!"
—
[You attempt to use Bone Resurrection, but the spell fails.]
Only the fire crackled in the silence that followed.
Charles flushed. Thankfully, no one else was there to see his humiliation.
Still, that message proved one thing—the spell could work.
So he tried again.
[You attempt to use Bone Resurrection, but the spell fails.]
…and again.
…and again.
[You attempt to use Bone Resurrection, but the spell fails. This is your 4th failure.]
[You attempt to use Bone Resurrection, but the spell fails. However, you seem to be getting the hang of it.]
He didn't know how long he'd been trying—five minutes? Ten?
But with every message, his hope grew instead of fading.
Until finally—
Something changed.
He murmured the words once more, but this time, they didn't sound human.
His voice deepened, twisted, became layered and distorted—like a chorus of whispering spirits muttering from the dark.
And as he spoke, a flicker of unnatural gray light flashed deep within his eyes.
The skull pendant over his left eye began to vibrate. Threads of faint gray mist, barely visible, peeled out of the air and drifted toward the corpse.
Since only one eye was covered, Charles could see it clearly—
the moment the haze touched the corpse, its flesh began to twitch.
At first, a faint bulge formed beneath the skin, like worms crawling just under the surface.
Then the arms, chest, and legs began to swell, veins pulsing as if something inside struggled to break free.
Bloodlines spidered across its skin—
and then, with a sickening crack, the forehead split open.
A pallid skull, slick with blood, forced its way through.
The resurrection… had begun.