The corpse wasn't supposed to come alive. Yet it stared straight at him with that blank face of rot.
Nerith exhaled sharply, hands stretched wide toward his sudden success. His fingers twitched restlessly, stained with chalk as his face glowed against the flickering candlelight of his surroundings.
This wasn't just an experiment; it was proof that he could bend boundaries, even in this forsaken hole.
A few hours ago, he'd been scraping the edges of failure, wondering how to prove he was more than the cell-house drudge they'd made him. From scrubbing grimy walls caked with years of neglect to mining Essence crystals for half the day under the watchful eyes of harsh guards.
He paced the narrow confines of the pit, his mind racing through possibilities, desperate for a breakthrough. Failure after failure had gnawed at him, making him question if his power was as worthless as people claimed.
Not like it mattered anyway. The government's iron grip ensured anyone with latent abilities was either subdued or discarded. Nerith had been the latter for too long, thrown into this pit to rot away his potential. If they even classified it as one.
Ten failed corpses in total.
And now, on the eleventh try, he had finally succeeded.
"Are you seeing this? It's staring back at me. I haven't even finished the ritual." He chuckled, the sound echoing hollowly off the damp stone walls.
He spoke to no one in particular, or perhaps to the persistent whisper that had haunted his thoughts since he got infected. Pacing in slow circles around the slab, the corpse's eyes tilted to follow his every step, tracking him with an unnatural precision. It wasn't alive—not truly—but it watched.
Thick slab were bolted into the floor, restraints biting deep into the corpse's gray flesh. The metal chains rattled faintly with each subtle movement it made. Its face was half-eaten by decay, skin sloughing off in patches to reveal bone and sinew beneath.
***
However, this was once a pitiful human, pulled from one of the government's disposal pits where they dumped the unwanted—the failed experiments, the infected who couldn't survive the awakening.
Nerith was no exception but he didn't need to linger on the pity. The more corpses there were, the better for his experiments and his escape. Each failed trial had been a step closer, teaching him the nuances of what flows through his veins.
Which of one thing, felt different.
They'd called his Essence a stupid trick compared to brute strength, elemental magic, telekinesis, and the other flashy abilities other Essence users awakened. Even the guards mocked him during his mining shifts, boasting about elite handlers who wielded fire and force. Nerith had endured it all, his silence a shield against the blasphemy, but deep down it burned.
How could they dismiss the art of commanding death itself?
Maybe they were right. It really was useless—if all it meant was resurrecting dead people. What good was a rotting human body against a bolt of lightning or a telekinetic crush? But Nerith sensed there was more, layers he hadn't peeled back yet.
And this success was proof.
***
The corpse's fingers twitched like broken wood, a spasmodic jerk that made Nerith's breath catch.
He stepped back on instinct, heel brushing the edge of the flame circle he once drew. The corpse continued, restraints groaning under the strain as it thrashed against the slab. Its mouth opened wide, jaw unhinging farther than any living anatomy allowed, revealing a black void where a tongue should have been.
"Don't you move," he pointed a finger, unsure if commanding a dead thing even worked.
Its head tilted a few degrees, as if confused, the motion accompanied by a soft crack of desiccated vertebrae. Nerith's stomach turned, bile rising as the smell intensified. Obedience or coincidence, he couldn't tell.
You've finally opened the door.
A voice resonated through his skull, less of a sound but more a pressure, like fingers pressing into his brain. The same whisper that had guided him through the ritual process.
"Good of you to stay quiet the whole time," Nerith snapped back, his words sharp to mask the disorientation.
He staggered slightly, one hand slamming against the cold cell wall to steady himself. For a split second, the Essence in his veins flared, burning black before settling into a sickly green glow visible beneath his prison pants.
You're dying.
The word hung in his mind, but he didn't reply to the voice, refusing to acknowledge the toll of channeling Essence in a body as weak as his.
The ritual circle brightened as he stepped inside, runic symbols he'd drawn earlier bleeding like melting wax.
He reached out and placed a trembling hand on the corpse's forehead.
"I didn't mean to drag you back," he said quietly. "I just needed proof I wasn't useless."
The corpse strained again, muscles long dead bulging against the restraints. One band snapped with a sharp crack, the loose end whipping across the slab.
Nerith flinched but didn't retreat, his feet rooted by sheer will.
Let it break free.
Let it fall apart.
You've survived worse.
Release it.
The whispers crashed one after another, slicing through his mind like jagged blades. Each one amplified the headache building behind his eyes, the sleepless nights and the ritual's instability pulling at his sanity.
He raised a shaking hand and pressed his palm against the corpse's chest. The flesh felt ice-cold, numbing his fingers, but he held focus, desperate to stop what he'd started. Sweat beaded down his forehead, dripping pain into his eyes.
"Stay," he commanded, pouring his will into the word.
Black veins spiderwebbed from his palm, sinking into the dead tissue like roots burrowing deep into soil. The corpse convulsed once more, its body arching off the slab in a final spasm, then froze. It slumped back with a heavy thud—lifeless once more.
Or so Nerith believed.
The flames snuffed out as if doused by an unseen wind, plunging the pit into near darkness save for the dying candles. Only scorched chalk remained on the floor, along with the faint stench of rot and ozone that clung to the air.
Nerith retraced his steps, gasping as his vision swam wild in the pit's gloom. Something inside him had snapped— like a thread cut short, but it wasn't physical. He clutched his chest at the bite of a sharp sting. Blood immediately followed up his throat, spilling onto the concrete in a glowing green vomit that sizzled faintly on the stone.
The price of going too far i see.
The screams of guards erupted from above the pit, their footsteps shaking the ground like an approaching earthquake. Dust sifted down from the ceiling, and he could hear the clank of weapons being drawn. They must have sensed his surge of Essence with their detectors.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a twisted smile tugging at his lips despite the pain radiating through his body. His pupils thinned to slits, glowing a sickly green that reflected against the darkness around him.
Now he was armed with a knowledge no human could comprehend.
But then a rumbling sound drew back his attention. From the slab.
Nerith's smile faltered in an instant, his eyes widening in horror. The corpse hand was moving, stressing against the restraint on its other hand.
Was this the consequence of going against life?