Chapter 93 — Dead, Then Alive Again
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[You have entered a rudimentary spiritual space]
[The surroundings are saturated with spiritual energy. Your Ghost Mask is being repaired]
[Your Ghost Mask is being repaired]
...
Notifications from the Eye of Reality drifted past one after another.
Within the hazy space, Charles—his entire body suffused with a faint golden glow—walked forward, carefully surveying his surroundings, yet finding nothing of note.
Mist filled everything.
Above, below, left, right, front, back.
Gray fog, like seawater, flooded his vision. Apart from the occasional blurred silhouette flickering past as he walked, there was nothing else to be seen.
The sky was wrapped in gray, the ground beneath his feet pitch-black. There was no visible light anywhere—yet this did not hinder his sight in the slightest. And that wasn't because of the golden radiance surrounding him.
It was because of the nature of this place itself.
Though it looked murky and dark, moving through it in a spiritual body gave him an inexplicable sense of comfort. Even without light, he could clearly perceive everything around him.
The black crack that had torn open at his "chest" when someone had violently struck his spirit was slowly closing.
Charles suspected this had something to do with the gray "seawater" around him.
If he remembered correctly, this substance was of the same nature as the compressed soul-energy he produced while practicing disguise spells—capable of nourishing, repairing, and even reshaping spiritual bodies.
And this dark space was strikingly similar to the one he had once created with secret sigils: boundless darkness, profound emptiness, containing nothing but spirituality.
The difference was that back then, he had been observing it from above. Now, he was inside it.
Moreover, unlike that temporary construct, this place was fixed.
Anchored within the crystal of the Scepter of Authority.
It felt less like a spell, and more like an innate ability.
The staff's innate ability.
Or rather—
The Stranger's.
"This place really is… peculiar," Charles thought quietly.
A Ghost Mask was ultimately different from a true spiritual body. Once damaged, it could not repair itself. It was an artificial spiritual skin—one might even call it a "body." Damage meant it required deliberate restoration.
That was why, the moment Charles entered the ASOIAF world, his first priority had been repairing his Ghost Mask. And by past experience, such repairs demanded a massive quantity of souls.
At the moment, he was traveling northward. Living people were everywhere around him—but they were all allies. No matter how many there were, they were useless for this purpose.
Well… not entirely useless. Large numbers did scare off bandits and raiders along the roads.
The northern army was advancing relentlessly, sweeping north without resistance. Under such circumstances, where was he supposed to find souls?
Naturally, his thoughts turned to the ocean of spiritual essence hidden within the staff.
Originally, he had only been thinking about how to extract and use the souls inside.
Who could have guessed that, without realizing it—
He himself had entered the place entirely.
What surprised him even more was that something which should have been troublesome was resolved so effortlessly—simply by standing here.
"If I stayed here long enough… would my spirituality just keep growing stronger?"
Watching the steady stream of repair notifications scroll past, Charles fell into thought.
If this place merely repaired damage, that would be one thing. But if it also enhanced spiritual strength…
As far as he remembered, this place was filled with countless restless souls.
A violent gale swept overhead, stirring the gray mist into churning waves. Charles looked up just in time to catch the fleeting outline of an enormous shadow passing above.
That reminded him of something else.
This place didn't contain only the dead.
It also contained nineteen dragons.
Nineteen dragon souls.
The nineteen dragon spirits beneath the Red Keep—once used to complete his seal—had not been completely consumed. Instead, they had ended up here.
Charles felt this was a good thing, yet at the same time, he had no idea what practical use it served.
Would those dragon souls grow stronger here?
And if they did… how exactly would that strengthening work?
More importantly—could he actually use them?
And how?
At present, this space beneath his feet seemed useful only for repairing spirituality. Aside from that, it didn't appear to have any other function—or perhaps he simply hadn't discovered it yet.
It couldn't store physical objects.
It couldn't function as a shelter from disaster.
Being able to pull souls inside was useful, at least—it meant Charles didn't have to personally play the role of the "grim reaper."
Still, every soul brought in here was oddly dull. Stronger than the wild wandering spirits he had encountered outside, yes—but not by much.
In short, they weren't normal people.
"So this place can hold souls, but those souls aren't quite who they were in life anymore…"
Charles frowned slightly as he reflected.
He vaguely remembered that the space he created using runes while practicing Wraith Substitute magic hadn't been like this—but he couldn't be sure. Back then, he had been observing from above. Now, he was inside it.
Perspective mattered.
Who knew whether the difference came from being immersed instead of looking down with a godlike view?
"Still… the one who served as the seed for the mask seemed perfectly normal…"
"Does that mean only specific spiritual entities can retain their full consciousness? That most lose something upon death?"
As this thought formed, Charles suddenly became certain of it.
Because he saw someone.
Someone different.
A bald head—completely hairless—covered in layered folds of striped flesh filled his view. The figure was tall and obese, swinging his arms as he shuffled forward in tiny steps, dancing with his back to Charles.
Ignoring how eye-searing that sight was, this spirit appeared far more animated than the others Charles had seen before.
But when the notification from the Eye of Reality appeared, Charles froze.
[The soul of Varys the Eight-Legged Spider]
[His spirituality is extremely strong]
[He is struggling to maintain mental stability]
[He is deeply confused about his surroundings]
…Varys?
There was no way Charles could forget him. In a sense, this man had been the first to drive him to the brink of death.
"I didn't expect to see him here… but I suppose it makes sense. The staff must have absorbed all the dead from King's Landing."
Marveling at the unpredictability of fate, Charles stepped forward and tapped the man on the shoulder.
"Hello."
The wobbling eunuch stiffened violently.
Then he turned his shiny bald head around, excitement flashing across his face—
"Finally… someone I can talk to…?"
The emotion in his voice shifted rapidly—excitement, doubt, confusion, and finally sheer terror—all within the span of a few breaths.
Then he shuddered.
And ran.
In the blink of an eye, he vanished into the gray mist, disappearing completely.
Charles bared his teeth and was just about to chase after him when a voice suddenly called out beside his ear.
"Lord Cranston, someone is looking for you!"
He paused.
That voice didn't come from here.
It came from outside—distant and unreal, like a sound descending from the heavens.
Looking for me?
Puzzled, Charles abandoned the pursuit. He reached up and touched a mark on his forehead—one he had never clearly seen himself.
In the next instant, his figure ignited and dissolved, vanishing from the space.
After all, this place wasn't going anywhere.
He could always come back later—once he'd dealt with whatever awaited him outside.