Chapter 91: Kindred of the Dead
A violent wave of dizziness lingered in Charles's mind. Everything before his eyes was blurred and indistinct. He strained to open them wider, desperate to see clearly, but failed again and again.
At first, he heard rushing wind tearing past his ears. Gradually, other sounds crept in—water dripping steadily, the shrill squeaks of rats, and the distant, frantic barking of dogs.
He seemed to be confined in a sealed space. The air was heavy and stale, the surroundings cold and damp. His hands were shackled—icy metal biting into his wrists, accompanied by the gritty scrape of rust and grit.
Everything felt terrifyingly real.
And yet, the haze clouding his vision made it feel like a dream.
What… happened?
Charles searched his memory. He had been standing on the Midsummer, watching the spectacle unfold, when disaster struck from nowhere. The man who fell out of the photograph suddenly self-destructed. And after that?
Gray mist swallowed everything. His mind went blank. When he "woke up" again, he was trapped in this state of half-blind confusion.
That man must have dragged him through space and dumped him here.
"Damn you, Zachary…"
Charles cursed under his breath.
Powerful enough to summon an angel—and yet he let someone snatch people away right under his nose?!
He vaguely remembered that Connie had been taken as well. Where she was now, he had no idea.
Please still be alive.
After what felt like a long time, some unknown effect finally faded. The blur in his vision slowly receded. Shapes sharpened, details returned, until the world snapped fully into focus.
Charles looked around.
It was a pitch-dark prison cell—cramped and narrow. The packed earth floor was hard as stone. Beneath him lay a pile of straw. At the far end stood a barrier of wooden bars, ancient and blackened with mold.
Beyond the bars stretched a dim corridor. Across it was another cell, empty and silent.
He was indeed shackled—locked to a metal ring in the wall with heavy, blackened iron cuffs, thick with rust.
There were no windows. The walls were carpeted in dark moss, moisture seeping through them. Whatever lay outside this place, it was certainly not normal.
[A prison cell saturated with the aura of death. Its age exceeds five hundred years. It may have been constructed beneath the sea.]
The prompt from the Eye of Reality sent a chill down his spine.
No one else was around.
Charles began thinking about escape.
Summon the Traversal Gate?
Impossible. Entering and exiting were completely different. The gate required him to step into it himself—it couldn't pull him out of restraints.
Other options?
Before he could think further, his thoughts were abruptly interrupted.
By a visitor.
Or rather—not a human.
A cloaked figure, wrapped head to toe in filthy bandages, with only a pair of pale violet eyes exposed. Those eyes—strangely beautiful—were fixed intently on Charles, deep and cold.
If that were all, Charles might not have jumped to conclusions. But when the figure passed straight through the wooden bars without resistance, his doubts vanished.
This was no living person.
The Eye of Reality confirmed it.
[Phoenix Gallowlin — member of the Dulin royal family. Veteran necromancer. Currently in a special spiritual state. His spirituality is extremely powerful.]
[He harbors ill intent toward you.]
"What do you want?" Charles demanded as the figure stopped in front of him.
"To offer you as a sacrifice to the great Twisted Rift," the being replied calmly, reaching out to examine Charles's face with unsettling care. After a moment, he nodded in satisfaction.
Then he burst into laughter.
"Don't worry. Necromancers rarely rely on sacrifices, and the Land of Death never lacks the dead," he said lightly.
"But the outcome…"
His smile widened, cruel and eager.
"…may be far worse than sacrifice."
Smacking his lips, the man squatted down in front of Charles. With the same bandage-wrapped hand, he produced a jet-black stone and began sketching symbols on the ground.
"So it's not a sacrifice?" Charles asked. "Then what—soul siphoning? Spell cultivation? Or possession?"
A necromancer—especially one existing in a spirit state—rarely desired more than a few things. As a necromancer himself, Charles understood this all too well.
"Sharp kid," the bandaged man said, lifting his head with feigned surprise. His pale violet eyes curved upward in a malicious smile. "Your body will be mine soon. Of course—only temporarily."
Apparently convinced that Charles posed no threat, the man continued drawing as he spoke in a low chuckle.
"Death Seizure allows me, in my current state, to temporarily control a new body. The Rebirth Rite, however, will grant me a body once more—one that is unique, unfamiliar, complete. Full of potential. Unknown to the world."
He glanced up again. "All it requires is a man and a woman to copulate. Lucky you, kid."
"So that's why you dragged Connie and me here?" Charles asked.
"Her name's Connie?" the man scoffed. "What a crude name…" He continued working as a faint outline of a magic circle began to take shape on the floor.
"Aren't you afraid the Church will come after you again?"
"They won't be that fast." The necromancer's pale violet gaze lingered coldly on Charles. "Using the Rift, I crossed the entire Dulin Kingdom. This place is a month's journey away from the Poison Dragon Sea."
Charles's heart sank.
Even with the Wraith Substitute, possession wasn't guaranteed to fail—but this wasn't possession. This was incarnation. Who knew how that worked?
"Why me?" Charles couldn't help asking.
There had been so many people on the deck. Why him? He had just been watching the spectacle, and disaster had dropped straight onto his head.
"Why wouldn't I choose you?" the man replied, puzzled. "Am I supposed to pick one of those ugly bastards? I don't want my new body to be hideous. On that entire ship, you were the only one worth looking at."
Charles fell silent.
So this was what it meant to have a "provocation face"?
Or was being handsome a crime now?
"Looks like in my next life I should pray to be uglier," Charles muttered. "Might avoid this kind of trouble."
"Next life?" The bandaged man's voice turned icy. "You still think you'll ascend to heaven? How laughable. Once the rebirth ritual is complete, your soul, your body—everything—will become nourishment for my new flesh. You will vanish completely. Don't blame me, boy. You're Church scum."
His words dripped with hatred. Charles wanted to say we're actually on the same side, but even he knew it wouldn't matter.
By the time the man finished speaking, the magic array was nearly complete.
A semicircular formation enclosed Charles, while a full circular array lay beneath it.
The scene felt eerily familiar. In the Ice and Fire world, the ritual he'd used to sacrifice the wildling woman had looked very much like this.
Only now, he was the offering.
"All done," the bandaged man said, standing and smiling at Charles again.
He was smiling again.
"If I remember correctly, you're Rhine's nephew, right? Don't ask how I know—I just do. What a shame. Rhine's gone now. Completely useless."
"Once this is over, maybe I'll visit her grave to 'thank' her. Grind her bones to dust? No, no… that wouldn't be satisfying enough…"
Muttering to himself, he suddenly began chanting before Charles could react.
The incantation slithered out from beneath the bandages—low, sinister, like undead whispering greedily around the living.
Once again, the scene felt hauntingly familiar.
Charles had no idea what would happen next, but his emotions were tangled.
Using necromancy on others felt thrilling.
Being on the receiving end, however, was anything but.
As the chant continued, the magic circles began to glow with a dull gray light. Candles placed along the edges ignited without flame, and notifications appeared before Charles's eyes.
[Your body has been restrained by a special magic array.]
[You have entered a Petrified state.]
[Your spirituality is being suppressed.]
The warning was useless.
The moment it appeared, the bandaged man's body suddenly collapsed. His cloak fell away, bandages unraveling and piling onto the ground as thick gray mist surged forward.
Charles tried to turn away—but under the array's power, he couldn't move.
The mist engulfed him completely.
[Phoenix Gallorin has cast an Incarnation spell on you.]
[Your spirituality is being enveloped.]
[Your control over your body is decreasing.]
The messages continued.
[Your control over your body is decreasing.]
Charles felt everything fading—the cold iron of the shackles, the chill of the stone wall against his back. Sensation drained away bit by bit.
Panic welled up. His heart sank.
But moments later, his racing heartbeat slowly steadied.
His expression turned strange.
New notifications appeared.
[Phoenix Gallorin has detected the Mark of the Seven Gods.]
[He has withdrawn the Incarnation spell.]
[He has begun attacking your Phantom Veil.]
[Your Phantom Veil is under attack.]
[Your Phantom Veil is under attack.]
[Your Phantom Veil has developed a breach.]
[Your Phantom Veil has developed a breach.]
[Your Phantom Veil has developed a breach.]
[Phoenix Gallorin has broken through the Phantom Veil.]
[He attempts to possess the Wraith Substitute.]
[Possession failed.]
[Target deceased.]
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