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Mortuarius - Chapter IV

The flame disappears before his eyes. Adler snaps his fingers quietly, the flame returning as soon as the movement is complete. The small void dances over his fingertip, devoid of the characteristic crackles of fire. He gets his other finger closer, and the flame smoothly passes on. Adler repeats that action time and time again, marveling at the feeling. It feels like silk gliding across skin. 

Or, at least, that's how he remembers the sensation. 

The important, yet dull monologues of his colleagues fall deaf on his ears. Divisions, emplacements, mine fields, assault groups… discoveries of the recent, so-called "war games" rouse the younger commanders, dressed in clean, pressed, black uniforms. Despite their positions, they seldom wear armor. He sighs at this image. Some of his fellows, as time-worn as him, call this the collapse. The collapse of tradition, the collapse of old morality. Even of the old world. Although he would disagree with this nihilistic perspective, the reality doesn't elude him. 

Old guard. Those words resonate within his soul ever since he first heard them. That's what the new bones call him and his peers. No longer do they look at him as a shining example, the main display of Umbra's military prowess. Now, they see him as a rather dated decoration, an old yet charming vase. He's still seen as a source of general knowledge, but he's not perceived as the leader he was before. Not anymore. 

Adler sighs. Where did he go wrong? Is it even his fault, or rather - the inevitable advance of warfare? 

"Lord General?" 

The voice brings him back to reality. He swiftly extinguishes the flame, and looks back at the table. Almost every skeleton is looking at him, their eyes flickering with excitement and expectation. The officer that asked the question, whose name Adler couldn't remember to save his unlife, is pointing at a set of intricate wooden carvings of Legionaries and Rankmen, placed over a bridge. 

"Lord General…?" The man asks him again, fully snapping him back. 

"Yes." Adler clears his throat. "I see your point, and I can get behind it."

The commandant, seemingly satisfied with the answer, turns back to the table. 

Although he can very well grasp and understand the idea of artillery and gunpowder weapons, he can't comprehend the change these two brought. Suddenly, large regiments of melee troops were "undesirable", "risky". Heavy cavalry, so favored by Adler, was labeled as "pointless" and "too expensive to remain effective". Seemingly overnight his entire concept of warfare has been flipped on its head. 

He still doesn't see anything wrong with a good shock cavalry charge. The roar of a hundred hooves, the clouds of dust brought up behind the terrifying echelon of bone, armor and pointed lances… Yes! He still remembers it vividly from his time commanding the troops in the War of Vengeance. There's no amount of divine help that can save a man impaled halfway on a three meter lance.

Adler smiles and the black flame on his fingertips shakes as memories of violence come back to him. He remembers his formation tearing into the line of armored infantry during the battle for the capital, lances punching through shields and the men wielding them as if they were nothing but paper. He recalls discarding his weapon and drawing the axe, cracking helmets and skulls from the top of his undead mount. 

The sounds of screams, the sight of bodies crushed underneath the stampede of skeletal horses and the enemies routing in panic fill his mind. Too immersed in thought, Adler pays no attention to either the officers slowly leaving the room, nor the servant cleaning the table. His running thoughts are interrupted when a familiar figure sits on the opposite side of the table. He raises his head to meet Watcher's gaze. The other undead smirks. 

"Reminiscing old times, are you?" The liche crosses his arms over his robed ribcage. 

"Hm." Adler hums in response, putting out the black flame with a flick of his wrist. "There's nothing wrong with going back to the better days."

"That's all you have been doing recently, hasn't it?" 

The general scoffs. Watcher glances at his watch, and quickly straightens his gowns. 

"At least try to look presentable. They should be here any second now." 

Adler fondles his armor piece by piece, making sure everything is properly attached. The proper meeting was about to begin - it was in his best interest to show himself from the best angle, especially due to the caliber of individuals that would attend the meeting. 

And, of course, only a fool would look sloppy in front of any of the Death Knights. Let alone three of them. 

Right as the door opened, both skeletons jumped to their feet, their ornate chair scraping the floor loudly as they stood up. 

Three figures emerged from behind the wooden barrier. Adler didn't have to see to recognise the first character - the stench of rotting flesh and decay was so strong that it transcended mortal senses, making his very soul shiver in disgust. Plague came in with his more formal attire - out of all of his fellow Death Knights he was the one that favored variety of the wardrobe the most. Instead of his armor, a black frock coat covered his figure, featuring golden buttons with intricate carvings on them. Despite tightly fitting his fairly unimpressive frame, the clothing lay on him as if there was actual flesh underneath. His skull was practically indistinguishable underneath the combination of a black top hat with a wide rim, and the white leather crow mask, contrasting fashionably with the rest of his outfit. His hands, clad in white leather gloves, rested on a hardwood gentleman's staff. As he entered, he tipped his hat slightly in a gesture of greeting. If not for the oppressive stench, Adler would find him quite unimposing. 

Suddenly, the now serious voice of Watcher sounds out in his mind. 

"Don't look at Sibtu. This is one case where ignorance will do you good, Adler."

His eyes immediately dart to the floor. As much as Watcher likes annoying him, he never threw around warnings haphazardly. Listening to his words of advice, especially spoken in such a stern tone, would do him only good. The only sight of Fear his eyes register are the ornate boots, dated in style even by his standards, decorated with square, iron buckles. 

Adler looks up at the last newcomer. The first thing that catches his attention - as it always does - is the uniform Adaru wears. It is a somber ensemble, tailored from a deep, lustrous black fabric that seems to absorb both light and attention from everything that surrounds him. The coat, adorned with intricate silver embellishments, hangs sharply on his frame, giving him an imposing silhouette. Despite his fairly narrow stature, Adaru stands at an unnatural height, casting an imposing shadow on those before him. The angular lapels and precise stitching hints at meticulous craftsmanship, while the black gloves, tight and sleek, add to the oppressive air of formality. As customary for the members of the Commission, Adaru's face was wrapped carefully in pristine, white bandages. His hat was not unlike that of the newer generation of officers, and of course - black. 

Black, black, black. Why is everything they want to wear black? Is this, perhaps, another characteristic of the new era? In his time, black was the color of commoners, not one suiting the top of the hierarchy. Nowadays it seems to be the cornerstone of order and elegance, but he just couldn't shake the association with grime and soot. Despite multiple offers and suggestions to do otherwise, he never ditched his old heraldry. In his opinion, most of his colleagues could use some color. 

His thoughts were suddenly halted when Adaru turned to him, stretching out his arm for a handshake. Carefully, the skeleton took it, cautious so as to match the strength of his superior.

"General Aldehan Adler. It is always a pleasure to see you." Even if his eyes were covered, Adler was sure they were focused somewhere else. He relaxed slightly, comfortable in the notion that he was too uninteresting for the Knight. Having his attention was never a good thing. 

Adler nodded, forcing a friendly note into his voice. "The pleasure is all mine, Lord Bearer."

Without another word, Adaru moved to stand at the head of the table, with Sunqu to his right and Sibtu to his left. Adler was seated on the other end of the table, with Watcher to his left. 

"Gentlemen!" The Bearer of Pain spoke, his voice smooth and fairly modest in tone. "I am pleased to see you here in full attendance. The meeting will now come to order."

With that signal, everyone took their seats. 

"It has recently come to my attention that the soul transplant procedure, at last, yielded results." The glance at Plague is enough of a suggestion, promoting him to reply. 

"Indeed. Thanks to some improvements in the process, methodology and, of course, the appropriate host - for which the credit goes to Sibtu - I have managed to keep the subject stable and alive." Sunqu turns to the former humans. "I have placed him in the care of two of my most trusted associates."

"It is our honor, Lord Adaru." Watcher responds, placing his hand over his chest. "We appreciate the trust placed in us."

"I applaud your selection of assistants, brother. General Adler is a fine choice when it comes to martial matters." Pain smiles at the skeleton in question, before dropping his voice slightly, gaze pointed directly at him. "Even if the means and strategies change as the ages go by, his mind remains sharp and his constitution noble. And so does his sense of fashion."

Adler feels his long-gone heart drop. The feeling of three pairs of eyes burning into his very soul freezes his vessel, rendering him speechless. With a considerable amount of effort, Adler makes the motion to clear his throat.

"Thank you, Lord Adaru. I serve the Great One with all my strength."

Adaru smiles, slightly clearing the air. Gazes drift away from Adler. "Anyhow. I have yet to see the results in person. Would you be so kind as to share any information regarding the subject? How can we be sure he is fit to survive?"

"I have found this human to be very resilient, very resilient indeed." A dry voice echoes from where Fear sits. It is dull, but constant. Every vowel is spoken with a different layer of the same, mechanical tone, varying in pitch and volume. "His grip on life is impressive, and his resistance to Necro is beyond anything we have encountered before."

“I see, and I trust your judgment. Now, we need to pose ourselves the question of what to do with our new acquisition. Has any Bearer voiced a particular interest in him?” 

“Sakurai Denki is yet uncontested.” Sunqu chimes in. “He is still an unsure investment. He appears to be stable, but his capabilities are still being tested.”

Adaru nods. “General? How is the subject’s performance during training? Are your perspectives positive regarding his future in the military?”

A trick question. Should his views be too optimistic, he might be considered a fool, but if he is too negative, his reputation as an objective authority will take a significant blow. He needs to find a middle ground. “The Sakurai is in good physical condition, but the Necro inside of him is quite unstable. It seems to fluctuate, although I can see no pattern in these changes-” 

“Denki is still unstable, as fresh undead tend to be.” Watcher interrupts, his eyes focusing on Adaru who listens on with interest. “But the changes have yet to cause any damage. I believe that with our assistance  - and Lord Sunqu will second me in this opinion - he will stabilize soon.” 

“... Even if he makes mistakes quite frequently, he does not suffer a shortage of determination within him.” Adler continues, throwing a bitter glance at his predecessor. “I have yet to see him yield, even under my most… invasive methods. In my opinion, Lord Adaru, Denki has potential with a strong base to build upon.”

“Thank you, General.” Adaru straightens up, and puts his hand to his chin. He remains quiet for a moment, immersed in thought. ”I will admit this, gentlemen - the Adarian State Commission suffers a shortage of reliable field agents. If Sakurai is indeed as promising as you make him out to be, then I could find use for him, provided that he isn’t needed elsewhere.”

“Ah, I see what kind of a use you have in mind. But that depends. An individual of unchallenged loyalty and unshaken resolve is needed here. I can assure the former, but does our subject have the latter?” Sunqu moves his hand, subtly signaling at Adler. 

The undead thinks for a moment, making sure to do so in images rather than words to make his considerations harder to read. Isn’t it too early? Denki is young to be a soldier, perhaps too young. And certainly he shouldn’t be made to…

“General?” Sunqu speaks again, his tone lacking malice, but the sting of his gaze is quite a telling signal. 

Adler stops himself, and speaks out without much hesitation. “I will do as you ask, but I am not willing to take responsibility for the results. Your proposition can influence him in significant ways, all of which may make his training… harder to complete.”

“Have some trust in my handiwork, General. But very well, I will humor you - the responsibility for this test will fall on me personally. On one, single condition.” Sunqu smiles, his polished teeth reflecting the light cast from the chandelier above. “You will test his mettle tonight. I want to see if this venture is worth my time.”

Adler looks down at his gloved hands, and sighs in quiet annoyance. 

“I shall do as you command, Lord Sunqu.”

—

Waltz eyes his guest as he uses the silver pincers to lift the blue crystal to his jaw. He promptly crushes it between his teeth and lets the shards fall through his mouth and down into the ornamental bowl below. The juicy, sweet taste of a cold strawberry (or rather the memory of it) pulses pleasantly from his core and throughout the rest of his skeletal body. 

What spoils the delightful taste in his soul, however, is the crude sight of Denki’s whole hand clenched around the fork’s handle as he shyly picks at the Coq au Vin on his plate, wielding the cutlery as if it was a dagger. Not even the rich, opulent decor of the private lounge he rented can distract him enough from the sorry sight in front. 

Waltz clears his throat, making sure to keep a steady expression against the odds. His right hand grips his wine glass, the other straightening out his collar. 

“I take it, Denki Sakurai, that you are not from here.” He starts out, and Denki looks up. Waltz’s white pinprick eyes meet the gray pupils of the human. “Your name is reason enough for a particular speculation, but it is not appropriate to make assumptions.”

“I’m Inazuman, sir.” Before he can elaborate, Waltz cuts in.

“I see! That explains your… unfamiliarity… with the cutlery. Allow me.”

Without hesitation, Waltz jumps up from his chair. The screech of the wood against the floor stings Denki’s ears. The skeleton starts moving over with decisive steps, circling around the long table. His heart drops as the realization hits it and with that, time seems to slow around him. 

Mistake. Mistake. He made a mistake. He made a mistake and there will be consequences.  

Denki’s heart is picking up the pace, and so is his breathing. Not yet. His hands adjust around the hilts of the silverware, his mind darting from memory to memory, searching for any reference. Every step Waltz takes feels like a painful eternity. 

He was told, wasn’t he? He was taught how to use these, but he forgot, and he knows what that means. Punishment, forgetting means punishment. He disappointed Waltz and forced him to waste his precious time to correct him. 

His thoughts overwhelm him like a river’s current. His eyes turn azure, setting loose memories. Instincts. Lessons from the past years and what followed, dealt by hands of the teachers. Waltz’s skeletal visage twists into a pale face wrapped in bandages before Denki’s eyes, his Vision twisting into a glimmering Delusion. 

Not yet. Not yet. The footsteps draw closer. Denki can still taste the blood on his gums from today’s earlier mistake, his jaw still aches dully, he can’t take one more.  It was going so well. He explained things to him, gave him food, treated him well, and this is how he repays Waltz?

There’s no time. Nothing comes to his mind. He wants to beg, plead for just a moment longer, promise that he will do better, but is unable to. Fear turns into terror, constricting his throat and silencing his voice. Desperation. But Denki knows better than to cry and be pathetic. Nothing will save him now. He lowers the cutlery with shaking hands and latches them to the table, seeking any comfort.

Waltz says something, but Denki can’t make it out. He stiffens, gaze obediently fixed on the plate before him, away from Waltz. The footsteps stop, and in a split second the man’s mind is flooded with their toolkit. Open palm. Fist. Kick. Whip. Cane. Baton. His body tenses in preparation for whatever torture is about to come. He knows better than to resist, it will only make things worse. 

Denki sees hands coming towards him. Too much. Too soon. He lets out a quiet gasp and it turns into a cry of pain as he feels something cutting the skin on his back. 

Suddenly, silence. No new pain, no slur, no laughter. 

Denki opens his eyes, preparing for a disciplinary blow. Instead of his teacher, however, he sees Waltz, frozen in his tracks with his arms still outstretched. Through the mist of his tears Denki can read an aura of concern emanating from the undead.  

There's a moment of silence. The skeleton lowers his arm, letting it drop limply against his side. The narrow points in the undead’s eyes shrink further, not larger than grains of sand. Waltz narrows his non-existent brows, and slowly moves closer to Denki, placing a skeletal hand on his shoulder.

“Are you unwell? Should I call a medic?” He asks with a stern, yet worried voice. Denki takes a deep, shaky breath and wipes his face with his sleeve.

A sense of shame overcomes him, the sort of shame that encourages him to scratch out his very eyes and flee to die in a dark corner. 

Denki swallows the embarrassment and tries to speak. “I’m sorry-”

“No-no. It's alright.” In response, the skeleton softly pats Denki on his shoulder, looking him straight in the eyes with a sense of camaraderie and understanding. “The fault is all mine. With what I know about you, I should have been more careful. Now, Denki Sakurai, would you mind if I showed you how to use these?” He points to the tableware. 

Denki nods. With slow movements and a steady tone, the general showcases the proper method of handling the tableware and, before long, Denki operates them with more confidence, allowing Waltz to return to his seat. 

“Although I am unfamiliar with the exact details, I do know that your passing has been, shall I say, less than ideal.” He gestures towards Denki. “When you were startled, your eyes turned blue. May I know what that means?”

The young man remains silent for a moment, pondering the question. His thoughts are interrupted when the searing pain on his back catches his attention. He slides his hand behind his collar and traces his fingers down where the pain originates from. Suddenly, he feels the familiar warmth of blood and a large, fresh gash on his back. After retracting his arm and confirming his suspicions, Denki answers. 

“I’m not sure, sir.” The blood on his fingers is a deep crimson, contrasting with his nearly snow-white skin. “I wasn’t aware of it until now.”

Waltz nods. “It seems pointing it out to The Watcher might be a good idea. Anyhow, please, help yourself to the food. It won’t taste as delightful when cold.”

After discreetly using his sleeve to wipe the blood clean, Denki tastes the meat doused in brownish sauce and is immediately hit with a rich, intense and slightly alcoholic flavor unlike any he had experienced before. He closes his eyes, letting it dissipate pleasantly on his tongue. 

Waltz smirks at his companion's reaction. He chews another piece of candy, this time the taste of a freshly baked, buttered bun. His hand instinctively reaches for the wineglass, finding it filled to the brim with fine Clochette Terrestre, the memory of which has been meticulously formed into a dense, red mist. As he lifts the vessel to his jaw and tilts it upwards, the substance pours down his bones, latching onto the copper wires lining his spine, flowing down into his core and dissipating. Waltz revels in the rich, deep flavor of someone's finest memory of the drink. 

His eyes find their way back to Denki, who is picking the meal apart with his fork. 

“Is everything to your liking, Denki Sakurai?”

The man seems startled by the question as he freezes, but promptly clears his throat and relaxes. 

“Yes, general. It's a bit different, more intense than anything I had in the past. That's all. Also, if I may…” Waltz gestures encouragingly with his hand, and Denki continues. “In Inazuma, the family name is usually said before the first name.”

Waltz's irises flicker and he frowns. What a fool he made of himself! His mind scrambles for an explanation. He didn't know! Right, yes. 

“Forgive my ignorance, Sakurai Denki. My home nation, Fontaine, is everything but close to yours, and so is Umbra, in which I spent the last fifty three years, meaning my lack of knowledge is a somewhat natural result of my situation.”

Waltz sends Denki a courteous smile. His foot starts tapping on the marble tiles below with impatience. 

“It's no problem.”

Waltz deflates, the façade of his smile turning into a genuine expression of satisfaction. Crisis averted. 

“Speaking of, your lineage must be truly worthy of respect. After all, who else is there to honor for raising such a well-mannered young man?” 

The other shifts in his chair. He hesitantly tastes the next portion.

“Thank you. My parents made multiple contributions towards the safety of Inazuma, but they never received recognition from the public. Their occupation was a lot less flashy than that of other nobles.”

Waltz can't help the smile. “Ah! So you're of high birth… That would explain your eloquent speech and predispositions. I see why the Great One chose you.” Denki doesn't seem to think much of the praise. Instead, his face remains blank, but the wrinkles of exhaustion seemed to deepen. The undead clears his throat. “Although the way you speak of them encourages a certain conclusion. My condolences.”

A slight, dismissive nod comes as a reply. Denki chews quietly for some time, causing an awkward silence to envelop the table. Waltz lets out a nigh inaudible sigh as he takes another sip of his wine, waiting for an answer. 

“Forgive my bluntness, Sakurai Denki, but it seems that being a good conversation partner is not your forte.” Waltz leans forward in his chair, a note of annoyed disappointment in his voice. “Which is unusual considering your origin.”

Denki's eyes flicker with a purple tint. “General, I’m sorry that you find me uninteresting. My social skills might not be on a high level as I didn’t have the opportunity to learn everything. I… didn’t have enough time.” “Oh. Forgive me for my insensitivity. How old were you when you passed, if I may know?”

For a moment, the human tries to recall the last time he called Narukami Island his home. The memories are blurry, with many undated gaps between his departure and revival. “I think I was around seventeen, sir.”

Waltz takes a sip of his wine and nods. “I see. You are a proper young man it seems, but your intelligence is quite beyond your age. I’m sure you had an easy time making friends in your earlier years?”

A small smile starts to turn Denki’s lips as the first pleasant words in his recent memory warm his soul. He shakes his head slightly. “To be truthful with you, I wasn’t the type to enjoy outings or parties, neither formal nor informal. I spent most of my days with a book in my hands.” “That’s commendable, Sakurai Denki. Especially seeing as youth tends to dismiss education these days, no matter where they are in Teyvat. What I had seen in Fontaine seems to apply to Umbra as well.” The general’s skeletal head turns with interest. “Speaking of Umbra, what are your impressions?” “It’s very cold here. Whenever I look out the window of my room or train, it always seems to be snowing or raining. Inazuma isn’t a warm nation, and I had some…” Denki pauses, searching for the right words. “... experiences in Snezhnaya, but still I cannot see the climate as anything but… sorry.”

In response, Waltz lets out an echoing chuckle. “Then it seems our opinions are alike. I also miss the temperate weather of the continent. I miss the hot summers, the brightness of nature awoken by spring - I even long for a winter. It has been too long since I’ve seen clean, white snow instead of the brownish slog covering the city now and then.” After seeing his glass is empty, the general raises his hand. A living attendant comes shortly, dressed in a proper three piece suit, and refills Waltz’s cup. “I have always wondered why the only season here seems to be autumn.” “Maybe it’s the wind?” The same waiter comes to take Denki’s plate. When the man asks if he wants dessert, Denki shakes his head and places a hand on his heart in a universal gesture of gratitude, prompting him to leave. “I have read that, in some parts of Teyvat, Anemo is strong enough to form currents that can push and pull clouds over thousands of miles. Maybe Umbra is near one of them.” Waltz nods. “It’s plausible. The people here, however, seem to have their own theories.” “What do they believe?”

Denki stops himself from lifting his cup of green tea right before it touches his lips. He lowers it and looks inside. The tea is comfortably ordinary with nothing unexpected inside. Relieved, he takes a sip.  

“You see, Sakurai Denki, they believe it is a curse. A punishment from the Gods, to be precise. It is said that when the Cataclysm took place, a group of desperate survivors prayed for salvation to death itself, hoping to avoid punishment for their sins against the heavens. The Great One took pity on them and came to their aid, taking them in His care. With His power he tore out a piece of the ocean’s floor, carving out what is known as Umbra to this day as a safe haven for them. In return, they accepted Him as their leader and god, serving him both during their lives and beyond. However, Celestia loathed The Great One for harboring the unworthy. For his rejection of their rule, the Gods doomed Umbrians to life in this eternal, cold, hellish mudscape you see around you.”

Silence falls as Denki takes in the story. A question suddenly shines in his mind. “Why didn’t the Gods punish The Great One directly?” Waltz shrugs. “I don’t know. Perhaps for an immortal god, seeing their people suffer over a span of centuries is punishment enough?”

“Maybe you’re right, sir. At the end of the day, we might never know for certain. It is the gods we are talking about, after all. We aren’t in a position to understand them.”

“They are higher beings indeed. Even if we have transcended our mortality, our souls and minds are human still, and will likely remain so.”

Suddenly, a series of knocks on the wooden door sounds out. Both of the men turn their heads towards the noise. Waltz frowns. “Who goes there…” He whispers the phrase through his grit teeth, and changes his tone into a louder one. “Come in!”

The waiter opens the door and two skeletons, dressed in uniforms of similar fashion as Waltz’s enter the room. One stands near the door as the other marches up to the general. He leans in and whispers words into where the general’s ear once was. Although Denki can’t tell apart the words that are being spoken, their sounds suggest they are in Umbrian. Waltz listens intently, leaning towards the envoy with a pensive expression. 

After relaying his message, the skeleton steps back. Waltz turns back to Denki, and raises up. 

“I apologize, Sakurai Denki, but duty seems to call - in the most frustrating of moments, as usual. I’m afraid we will have to postpone our conversation until our next meeting.”

Denki stands up slowly. “I understand.”

He watches as Waltz draws a small block of white paper strips. Pulling out a black fountain pen with a golden tip, he makes several writings on the topmost one with just a few flicks of his wrist. Waltz tears it off and hands it to the waiter. 

The skeleton’s eyes find their way back to the human. Waltz stretches out his hand, flashing Denki a smile. The man approaches him and takes the gloved hand in his, shaking it gently. 

“Thank you, sir. The food was outstanding and it was an honor to be in your company.” As he speaks, Denki bows out of habit. Waltz doesn’t seem to mind, the feeling of a smile never escaping Denki’s mind. 

“Ah, nonsense! I should be the one thanking you for your time. Someone of such a reputation and unique situation as yourself surely measures his time in Ether.” Their hands part, and Waltz places his hand on Denki’s shoulder. “Besides, you must have trained hard today. You are surely exhausted.”

Their eyes meet, and Denki’s heart warms at the sympathy he finds in Waltz’s irises.

“I wish you a restful night, Sakurai Denki.”

-

But there was no rest to be had that night. 

Around midnight, when the pale light of the moon was the most prominent, Denki was shaken awake. Without a moment to question or even understand his situation, he was forced to spring out of bed and dress up amidst shouted orders. The skeletons that came for him wasted no time, shoving him out of his room and practically dragging him through multiple corridors and staircases. 

As he marched through the fortress, he could finally collect his thoughts. The most instinctual part of his mind raises alarms - it wasn’t the first time in his life when his privacy and rest was violated. But this time, it is the undead that ripped him out of the bed. What would surely scare the majority of people, however, brings him a sense of comfort in separating the memories from the present. 

He sneaks glances at the soldiers that are escorting him. Their weapons are absent from their sheaths, but the rest of their equipment is in place. Black, matte plates lined with similarly dark padding underneath effectively hide every bit of bone from the onlooker. The padding stretches from their heavy boots, over their rib cages and up to a high collar, tucked into their tight-fitting helmet on their skulls. In the front, the metal visage of an expressionless man covers their features, but Denki can still spot their glowing, white eyes within. He has seen their kind of armor before - he wore it during his training, learning how to put it on and getting comfortable with its weight. Without a doubt, they are Legionaries, the same that Denki saw Adler around many times before. 

Despite the exhaustion imprinted on his face, Denki smiles. Will he become one of them?

They lead him towards a side door that the human assumes to be, based on the lack of any windows, several layers beneath the ground level. Without knocking the soldiers push the door open, and motion for Denki to go inside. In the room stand two more Legionaries in full uniform, a skeleton in a flowing black robe and Adler himself.

The commander approaches Denki right away. 

“Ready?” He asks with a demanding voice. 

Denki nods, but his voice comes out slightly mumbled. “Yes, sir.”

Adler frowns, and turns his gaze left, where a large, open barrel stands. Several cloths are partially submerged in the water within, likely used in cleaning the soldiers’ equipment. Adler submerges his hand into the vessel, gathering water into his glove. Promptly, he turns back to Denki and splashes it across his face without warning. Denki recoils and gasps as the icy fluid instantly brings his senses back to working order. He coughs out the water that got into his mouth, and Adler crosses his arms over his chest. 

“Feeling awake yet? More confidence! You’re a man, not a teenage girl, Denki.”

“Yes sir!”

“Better.” He points to a rack with a complete set of equipment, polished and ready. “Get your armor on, pronto. Everybody is waiting for you.”

Denki wastes no time and rushes over. He starts with the leather jacket, draping it over his shirt and quickly buttoning it up. Despite being designed primarily for undead, the cotton reinforcement was left exposed from the inside, giving the wearer surprising comfort, along with plenty of warmth. Adler watches closely as Denki puts on the lower part of the fit, replacing his nightgown bottom with a thick, protective layer of dark leather and sliding heavy boots with studded soles on his feet. The armor plates are next - the most difficult part of the process. He quickly throws the top plate over his chest and starts clumsily buckling the straps, securing it tightly to his muscular chest. What comes after is easier - the greaves, braces and other limb protection doesn’t prove as challenging to fit. Soon his equipment is finished up with three belts - one for his waist, fitted with small pouches and two for his sides, with that for his right thigh holding a sizable knife, and the other an empty holster, with a secure strap on the top. Denki adds the helmet, tailor-made for his flesh-covered head, and reaches for the mask.

“You aren’t a skeleton, are you now? You don’t need that.” Adler says, and motions for Denki to come over.

The man obeys. Adler reaches down with his left hand, unbuckling his holster and drawing the weapon inside. He turns it so that the handle is pointed towards Denki, and the human takes it in his hand. 

The gun is unlike anything Denki ever saw in his life. A flintlock pistol from Fontaine is the closest item that it could be compared to, but it would still do no justice to how different the contraption was. Instead of wood, most of it was constructed from metal, this weapon’s being painted a dull gray with accordance to the nighttime camouflage pattern he was wearing. Instead of the multitude of parts one could see in a musket, this armament’s jaw was made up of a single element - a hammer-shaped piece of metal that would strike the unusual, box shaped part located right next to it when the trigger was pulled. It was shorter, yet heavier than a flintlock pistol. In spite of how often his mentor made Denki handle such a gun, he was still unsure every time he took it in his hands. The occasional tournaments in Inazuma were almost impossible to attend due to the noise, and firing such a device was all the more difficult than watching it in the hands of someone else. 

Still, he needed to swallow his worries. He won’t become what he is meant to be by being fearful.

“Reza Model 22. Rules.” Adler eyes Denki with expectation. The latter takes a deep breath, and begins reciting what he was made to remember.

“I keep the safety on until the mission begins. I only use it in an emergency. I never aim it at my teammates. I keep my finger off the… the…” His heart skips a beat as he sees the skeleton’s aura darken. “T-trigger.”

Adler nods. “Good. Now load it.” 

Denki takes the small cartridge box from Adler’s hand and cracks it open. The bullets within are as unique as the weapon itself. The outer layers of each are made exclusively out of brass, with the shell hiding what he was told to be the gunpowder, with the bullet, mounted at the tip and shaped like a dull spike of sorts being the only exposed part of the whole cartridge. 

He picks out five of them. Cocking a small lever on the side lets the barrel be moved. Denki carefully slides each round into a chamber, taking care not to use any force this time. His arms still ached from holding himself up as punishment for when his recklessness caused him to damage the barrel of his training pistol. After filling the chamber, he puts it back into place. 

“I need to put the safety on.” He says before Adler has a chance to instruct him again, a glimmer of approval shining in his eyes.

Denki uses his thumb to slide a small, wooden cap to the side. It shifts to rest between the hammer and the cylinder, preventing an accidental firing. He then slides it into place on the back of his left thigh. 

“Well done. It seems that you can follow simple commands.” Adler chuckles, turning around to face the rest of the skeletons. 

They stand near the undead in the robe, their backpacks on and crossbows in their hands. Denki slides on his gauntlets, made of thick, dark brown leather with small armor plates on the outside parts. They are painted, just like the rest of the metal - to prevent light from reflecting off of them and giving the wearer’s position away. Snatching the rectangular shield and his shortsword from the rack, Denki focuses his mind on the weapons, and soon enough, they glow a bright yellow. He marvels at them as they fall apart into small, shining dust before completely fading away. Despite their dematerialisation, he can still feel they are nearby. He flicks his hands as if attacking something with the sword, just like Adler taught him, and surely enough the sword reappears in his grip. Denki dismisses the weapon and eyes the final weapon on the rack - a heavy crossbow. He takes it in his hold, and at last he joins the rest of the group. 

The lich raises up from the floor, uncovering the complex chalk drawing on the tiles. Copper wires line every part of the symbol, connecting at the small red crystals placed on overlapping points of the icon. 

There’s a moment of silence. Adler talks to the mysterious skeleton in Umbrian, Denki being able to recognise just a select few of the words spoken. His shoulders are quite close to the heads of the skeletons around him. 

Was he this tall before? Suddenly, a violent screech fills the room, making Denki almost drop the crossbow. He looks up at the source of the noise, one hand over his ear, and sees… nothing. Where the wall was just moments before, there’s a tear - just as if someone outlined the area and painted it black. However, no light was reflected by as much as an inch of the surface. 

“Let’s move.” Adler says, and the skeletons step forward. 

Without hesitation, they just walk into the rift, their frames vanishing into the void beyond. Denki approaches from the side as his last comrade walks through. He finds that it is not, in fact, a crack in the wall, but rather a space floating in the air, directly above the chalk circle. As he moves his head to view it from the side, he finds it to be… invisible? He looks back at the front, and the black gash reappears. And yet, when he views it from behind, he can see only an impatient Adler-

Denki’s eyes widen, and he springs back to the front. He waits for a verbal correction, but none comes. 

“Fascinating, right? I wasn’t believing my eyes the first time I saw a portal, just as you are.” He walks towards the rift and places his heavy arm on Denki’s back. “I can tell you more about them, but later. For now, get a move on.”

A slight push forces Denki to step closer to the passage. No sound, wind or smell comes from within. He tightens his fingers around the stock of the crossbow in his hands, and runs into the rift.

For a brief moment, his vision goes completely dark. Then, a barrage of colors, some of them he would be unable to even name. They twist like worms, flowing into various, repeating patterns with spike-like protrusions. Overwhelmed, he feels his knees give out and he falls forward, plummeting face first into the ground. 

Denki's head throbs. Unable to see with fractal patterns dancing before his eyes, he feels the ground with his hands. 

Mud. Slick grass. He takes a breath. The air is cold, humid, but not frigid. Sounds of rain surround him. He feels the droplets sink into his clothing. 

Finally daring to open his eyes, he sees what he has nearly forgotten. Grass. Fresh, lush, slightly bluish in the moonlight. He drags his fingers over its blades, unable to feel it through his glove. Slowly, he raises up, snatching his crossbow from the ground. 

Rain pours down from the black sky above as he examines the area around him. Grasslands, barely visible in the dark, stretch in every direction, sprinkled with birch and oak trees here and there. The terrain houses many bushes, fallen trees and rocky irregularities, but remains mostly flat. 

His team is barely visible to him, but squinting his eyes reveals their silhouettes, even darker than the backdrop of the rocks they crouch behind. Denki wastes no time and scurries to a lone stone, hoping his small stumble didn't earn him a punishment. 

Adler stands several meters away from his position, looking around. Denki cannot help his curiosity, and looks behind the rock he is resting against and in the same direction Adler's gaze stopped on. 

Despite the fog raised by the rain, the city is clearly visible as the lights within pierce through the obstruction. It's walled and positioned on a small rock isle, a stone bridge lined with lanterns being its only connection to the mainland. On top of the towers, several, multi armed windmills draw his attention, completely still in the hostile weather. 

He sits back down. How did the opening carry them from Umbra up to here, a thousand kilometers away?

The commander raises his hand. A skeleton approaches him, and after a brief exchange takes off to the side. 

Minutes pass. Denki's shirt is soaked, the rain pouring through every opening in his armor without pause. He lets loose an involuntary shiver, his breath turning to fog in the night's cool. 

At last, Adler speaks, breaking the monotonous rustle of the rain. 

“On me.”

As one, the skeletons raise up and jog up to their commander, with Denki following suit. His boots sink into the muddy road, but he presses on, splashing it around with every hastened step he takes. Before Denki can even fully warm up, their units stop abruptly. His comrades part, letting Denki see Adler motioning for him to come closer. He complies. 

“Over there.” Adler points, Denki's eyes following his clue. Right away, he notices the warm, orange light of a campfire some distance away, accompanied by several rugged tents. “Hilichurls.”

Although it takes a moment, Denki notices a handful of lean figures through the rain. “Are they who we are looking for?”

“Well, in a sense, yes. Our target practice.”

Denki furrows his wet brows. He knew what they came here for, but hearing Adler's words, acknowledging their meaning and consequences makes him uneasy. 

Hilichurls are monsters, yes - just like slime, like Vishaps or Whooperflowers. But there's something exceptionally human about them that sets them apart from the rest. The way they can build, light fire, speak and form groups always seemed eerie for Denki. 

He grips his crossbow tighter, the weapon of fast approaching murder. 

It's just Hilichurls. Monsters. They are dangerous, he thinks. They need to be removed, else somebody might get hurt. He knows this, and yet, the idea doesn't spark excitement in him. 

“We're going to go to the right, over there. See?” The skeleton points again. “Near those bushes. We’ll get a clear shot.”

Just a few seconds are enough for the unit to change their position. Adler kneels down, Denki joining him before the undead’s armor could touch the ground. Denki knows what to do. 

“Five in the camp in total, three asleep. I don't see any noteworthy weapons in the tents.” He whispers, eyes darting from figure to figure. Despite how barbaric he knows them to be, they seem harmless. Peaceful even. 

“Very well. I want you to take out the one sitting on the log to the right. It should be an easy shot for you to take.” Adler switches his language, tone remaining firm but quiet. “Load.”

Denki understands the command and quickly lowers his crossbow. He slides the metal now underneath the sole of his shoe. After freeing the string, he pulls it upwards. Every muscle in his torso and arms tense as the heavy crossbow creaks quietly, but eventually he pushes the tip of the line into a dedicated slot. Opening a pouch on the back of his belt, he draws a short bolt and places it carefully on the track. 

“Aim.”

Denki raises the weapon, lining the tip of his bolt with the humanoid figure by the fire. His heart pounds. His right hand rests over the trigger, ready to push upwards in a split second. 

His arms wobble under both the weight of the weapon and the sinking feeling in his heart. Denki bites his lips and props his right elbow on his raised leg. His aim grows still. 

“Fire.”

Denki pushes the level upwards, setting the projectile loose. 

Simultaneously, five more bolts are released as the team fires with him. In a flash, Denki's arrow finds its mark. The missile sinks into the Hilichurl’s side with a full thud. It lets out a yelp and falls from the trunk. 

A second passes. Then the next. The only sounds are the droplets of rain plummeting from the sky. In the camp, there are no movements. The Hilichurls lie still on the mud and in their tents. Some of them never woke up. 

“Clear.” Adler says, raising his hand and waving it forward. “Let's go.”

The company moves as ordered, this time at a normal walking pace. As they approach the campsite, the fog clears enough for Denki to get a better look at the tents. Calling them makeshift would be an insult to all things provisional. The cloth is made up of various fabrics differing in color, stitched together with thick threads. The water weighs heavy on the covers, coming through the ever present holes in slow, steady streams. Despite that, as he enters the camp, he can tell the hay inside every single one is at least partially dry. 

“Search! Grab every valuable item you can find.” Adler orders, and the undead get to work. Denki picks out the shelter closest to him and goes in. 

There's no monster carcass inside. Instead, he finds it full of crooked pottery and rudimentary boxes with red paint chaotically splashed across them. Denki strikes the top with the butt of his crossbow. The lid proves tougher than he expected, but another more forceful blow shatters the shoddy construction. The man can't see its contents through the darkness. He reaches for the pouch on his belt and draws a crystal. He unwraps the wire, and right as it is untied it starts glowing a bright yellow light. Using the Electro crystal’s light, he examines the contents. Rotten fruit, bags of stolen grain and rusty weapons fill the box. 

Nothing interesting. But then again, what did he really expect from Hilichurls? 

He leaves the tent. The area is littered with broken planks, smashed pottery and various miscellaneous pieces of junk. Someone already stomped out the fire, leaving most of the site to be illuminated solely by the moon. A red glint in a nearby puddle catches his eye. 

Blood has long started pouring from the creature he killed, mixing with the rainwater on the ground. It lies on its side, facing away from him. Denki crouches down and gently turns it over, coming face to face with its white mask adorned with unintelligible symbols. Using his free hand, Denki tugs at the fur around its neck, but it doesn't budge.The hairs are wet and filthy, littered with mud and dried, yellowed remains of… something. Below the mask the mane is stained dark red with blood, prompting him to turn his attention to the bolt. Only the back end of it sticks out of the body, seemingly having either broken them or passed in-between, burying itself in the right lung of the creature. He trails down, noticing how, despite having a fragile appearance, muscles line its stomach. Its nails, placed on five fingered hands, are long and unkempt with dirt and blood underneath. There's a simple bracelet around its wrist, composed of sea shells and pieces of polished metals. 

“Admirable shot.” 

Denki jumps and nearly falls onto the body. He turns around and sees Adler, looking down on him with a smirk of approval. The man recovers and rises to his feet, wiping the mud off his thigh plates. 

“Have you found anything interesting?” 

Denki shakes his head. “No, sir.”

“Happens. Not every expedition yields income. Now come, we're done here. Let's not waste time.” Adler walks away, but Denki doesn't follow. Instead, he turns back to the Hilichurl. As if reading his mind, Adler speaks over his shoulder. “I’d advise you to leave the mask on. It's there for a purpose.”

His hand, already reaching for the wooden veil, stops, and he raises up to rejoin his comrades. 

Under the cover of darkness, they move southwards, away from the city. The rain faded, shortly giving way to the chirping of crickets. As the soil absorbs water, the terrain becomes more traversable. 

In a low voice, Adler breaks the silence.

“Remember, boy, that everything you can get your hands on that is on or near the enemy is yours to keep - that is the conqueror's right.”

“To the victor go the spoils.” Denki speaks out, and quickly adds: “Sir.”

His mentor nods. “Aside from Mora. Mora has much more use than a mere currency. Alchemy, forging, necromancy, sciences - any practical art you can name makes use of its power. Regardless, you can exchange it for Ether, ten to one.”

“I understand, sir.” 

The unit reaches a small clearing. Someone draws a pair of binoculars, and examines some areas invisible to Denki. The Legionnaire turns around and signals to Adler with a small nod. The general hums, putting an arm around Denki's shoulders. 

“Now, Denki, we'll see if you have what it takes to become a man. We'll find out what you are made of.” Aldehan Adler takes the binoculars from the scout and passes them on to Denki. He takes the wooden instrument in his hands, bringing them closer to his eyes and turning them in the direction pointed to by Adler. 

His eyes instantly pick up the light coming from a small crevice in the terrain. During daytime, the camp within, adorned with triangular, green cloth to stop the rain would be nigh impossible to spot. Now, however, it's easy prey-

Prey…? 

He shakes off the thought. 

Unlike the camp of the Hilichurls, this one is far more organized. Denki spots a tent over the rocky elevation, partially obscuring his view. It's completely gray, clearly designed with care - the shape is perfectly triangular, and the ropes stretch from the pegs and under the fabric to ensure the construction is stable. Behind the shelter there's a small, makeshift fence on which various clothes rest, their every thread thoroughly soaked. 

“We separate into groups of three. Two and four go with you from the left, and the rest of us jump down from the right. We jump down after you kill the wachmann, and start the massacre. They will be panicked, disoriented, easy to kill.” Adler speaks quickly, likely impatient. 

Denki wants to say something against the plan. Anything, even for a nonsensical reason. Whoever is in there likely doesn't have good intentions - why else would they choose to camp out in the open? Even if they are Treasure Hoarders, criminals, low lives, the very scum of the earth… No.

He couldn't do it. 

He hands the binoculars back to the scout. Denki turns to his master, but as soon as he opens his mouth to speak his words die right in his throat. 

What would Adler do if he said no? 

Weak. That would be what he would hear. Pathetic wimp. Waste of time and space. He would have to hold himself up for hours on end, run in ankle ties of sharp wire, crawl over sharp rocks and mud until he would beg at Adler’s feet for forgiveness. He would mumble and cry, again. 

And yet, he didn’t want to do it. 

He didn’t want to obey, but was there really an alternative? Adler took him under his wing, The Great One offered him a new life. He was given a home, a place of safety. He was never hungry. He was never cold. All he is asked in return is a choice. A choice between weakness and… strength. Grit. Stoicism. He can show them that he can move on, be strong again. Achieve, mature. Become someone worthy of what he has received, a man deserving of respect, both feared and adored by those around him. 

He has to do it. 

“I’m ready, sir.” 

Without delay, Adler waves for two of the Legionaries to come with him. “I like that attitude, Denki. Get going.”

His group turns around. Denki follows their lead, careful to maintain his balance on the uneven, partially sunken road. The leading soldier quickly locates a smoother descent and slides down to the level of the camp, the other two following suit. Keeping a borderline crouch position, they wade through the trees and approach the entry to the base as close as the greenery will allow them to stay out of view. Denki sees his teammates load their crossbows, and so does he. One of them turns to him. 

“Do you see the man in that lean-to? Shoot at him with me. Wait for my signal, and remember to aim at the chest. It will be easy to hit.”

Denki takes aim, his hand tucked securely away from the trigger mechanism. His gray eyes pick up a flash of purple light from the rocky platform above the campsite. Illuminated by the signal are the other members of the team, their shields and swords at the ready. 

His eyes wander back to the human at the other end of his weapon. 

They sleep clothed, covered with ragged blankets. There’s a flask and a knife by his side, the candle that once illuminated them long burnt to the end of the wick. 

“Fire.”

The tension in his body is released as the bolt flies loose. The bandit opens his eyes, but before he can even react the projectile pierces his stomach, with the other planting itself directly in the middle of his chest. He curls and falls to the ground with a choked grunt. Behind him, the rudimentary roof collapses under the weight of the three armored undead as they jump down into the camp. A woman raises up from the ground, but her life is taken before she can make a sound. An axe leaves her skull split in half, painting the wight’s armor red with fresh blood. To the right, Adler stabs a startled human through the stomach, pinning him to the ground. With violent glee he turns the blade in his flesh, making his victim wail.

“Charge!” The command falls from the skeleton on Denki’s right. 

He slings his crossbow over the shoulder and dashes out of their hiding spot. As he enters the camp, his melee weapons are already resting in his hands. A quick glance over his surroundings reveals most of the work has already been done. Bodies lie strewn around the ground, amongst packs and chests splattered with blood. With adrenaline pumping through his veins, Denki rips the front flaps of the tent to his left, revealing a lifeless body with a crossbow bolt lodged in its back, wrapped in bloody bed sheets. With his next breath, Denki takes in the nauseating scent of copper, causing him to back out and into fresh air. 

He lowers his weapons. It’s done. He turns to view the others. 

The subtle sound of a body being turned over escapes his ears.

In a flash, someone latches onto his back. Denki curls on reflex, making the assailant’s blade miss his throat by inches, sliding harmlessly off his armor. He struggles, trying to shake them off. The blade strikes again and again, each time meeting hard steel instead of vulnerable flesh. Fighting back, Denki dismisses his shield and uses his left elbow to strike at the attacker, causing them to let go. He darts around, coming face to face with a smaller figure clad in a brown cloak. 

She wastes no time and delivers a decisive kick to his knee, causing him to stumble. He raises his sword just in time to block her dagger arm, but his victory is short lived as he receives another kick, this time into his groin. He growls through the pain, and clumsily uses his whole weight to ram the bandit. They both fall through the tent, tripping over the dead body and plummeting to the ground. The woman pushes the disoriented Denki to the side, but he manages to get a fistful of her hood along with the hair. She yelps and kicks him in the face, using the initiative to flip around and stab at his eyes. Denki covers it with his iron-clad arm, rolling over to his stomach and tackling her again, sending both of them over to the edge. He pushes himself up to hover over her and grabs a hold on her neck. She attempts to retaliate with the knife pointed at his throat. Denki attempts to seize her wrist, yet is stopped by a knee right to his stomach. A glint of steel is all he sees before the very tip of the knife buries into his face and slices upward right through his left eye. 

He lets out a howl of pain, clutching his wound but never letting off the girl. She kicks and punches to get herself free but his body is too heavy. Grabbing a hold of his shoulders and flipping him over. Denki strikes at her chaotically, knocking both of them through the stick fence and down into the sandy ditch below. The woman yelps as his armored body crushes her hand with its weight, her only weapon falling out of her grip. She lands on the ground with her opponent rolling just past her. 

She tries to scramble to her feet, but her damaged hand proves unable to provide any support. Sobbing, she grabs a handful of wet sand and throws it at Denki who is rising up, using his sword as a booster. He stumbles over, knuckles growing white from his grip on the weapon and teeth clenched tightly, adrenaline pulsing through his body. 

The woman whines, raising her good hand defensively, but instead of mercy she is met with a crude horizontal slice across her chest. She screams and is promptly silenced when Denki points the sword at her stomach and rests on the handle with his full weight, pushing it through her like through a pillow. 

He pants heavily as he stares into her green eyes, wide with shock and agony. His remaining iris glows deep purple while blood continuously drips from his destroyed eyeball and onto her clothing. 

Denki watches as life slowly leaves her eyes. At first she struggles, attempting to push the sword out of her wound but soon grows weak, her gasping for air replaced with slight twitching.

Before long, her body grows completely still. 

With a groan of extension, Denki withdraws his sword and falls back. He doesn’t even have the strength to look up when clapping sounds out through the night. “Well done!” Adler congratulates Denki with several slow claps, a wide smile on his absent lips. “Sloppily, barely, but well done!”

Followed by the team, Adler steps through the collapsed fence and down into the ditch. He looks over at the body, and then back to Denki, who by that time managed to sit up, his blade still stuck to his hand. He looks up at Adler. 

“Why didn’t you… help me?” His voice is hoarse from exhaustion and screaming. He feels as if someone had poured acid down his throat. 

Adler crouches down to meet the man on eye level. “Because I don’t want losers, dead weight, wimps. I want men. Men who can fight for their life and win. Those that can help themselves first. And it seems that you, Sakurai Denki, are one of them.”

Denki tries to stand up, but his knees feel weak. Adler grabs his arm and hoists him up against the nearest tree, allowing him a stable support to grab. 

“A-am I…?”

Nodding, Adler seems to smile even wider. “Yes! Your strength, the sharpness of your mind, the pure desperation for survival… And the lack of hesitation. My boy, you aren’t just a natural survivor, oh no. You’re a born killer.”

Adler’s words distort in Denki’s mind. His eye feels heavy. Adrenaline rapidly leaves his system, the pain in his eye growing to an agonizing level. He fails to support himself and slides down to the ground. 

He closes his eye. 

The rain picks up again. 

Thank you so much for reading!

[19burstraat]

six of crows x the locked tomb au concept?

I feel like this is a fairly narrow crossover area but I've been obsessed with both lately and I wanted to throw shit at the wall and see what sticks. Pretty sure there's no Nona spoilers, since it's a crossover AU. I don't know how many people have read both of these series but to hell with it someone must have done lmao. This is less plot and more concept but anyway

Kaz (the Ninth, for the tomb and all that was lost, Heretical Secrets, The Sewn Tongue. The Reverend Son out of We Have No Young People Left process of elimination.)

If Kaz is going to be any house it's got to be the freaks with the elaborate black costumes and the constructs that have no flesh on them (lucky for Kaz...), that tell people fuck all about anything and have scary customs.

Jordie died in the pursuit of lyctorhood; @bloodbroox just suggested to me that he could have been talked into being Pekka's cav without knowing what he was getting into, and then was killed and consumed so Pekka could ascend, so Kaz is now out to get up to that fucking Mithraeum and kill Pekka himself.

I imagine Kaz has a very similar backstory to the one in the books, since it's not like there's a shortage of corpses in this series hh. Probably tried to save Jordie and got left in the aftermath with his corpse and many, many others. I wonder if I could pull in a very literal appearance of the River... maybe Kaz interfered and briefly got stuck in the River (i.e. nearly died) before he clawed back out, out of sheer insane willpower.

(Yes you can tell I don't entirely understand the more scientific aspects of TLT just go w it lmao)

No one dares to point out to Kaz that some rando with no necromatic skill cannot kill a Lyctor, because they're worried he might acc find a way. He's literally only a badly trained cav, but he's... determined. By the time everyone else works out he's the one to get rid of it's too late.

(Matthias, Kuwei and Inej, well trained and courteous cavs, are eventually horrified to find out how Kaz fights lmao.)

I'm not sure how he'd have broken his leg but there's a lot of perilous bits on the Ninth. Maybe training. It just makes his cover better though. How could he be the cav, he's clearly the necro...

No he's not. He's being covered for by...

Jesper (the Fourth, fidelity, facing ahead, The Hope, The Sword Ninth)

Jesper escaped from the Fourth because he and his dad didn't want him to get sent onto the battlefield to be a living weapon and then die, like most Fourth house kids. He got caught, and got thrown into the Ninth house jail. He emphatically insists he is not a necromancer. Yes he is.

Kaz springs Jesper from the Ninth jail and makes a deal with him; they'll swap. Kaz isn't a necromancer and Jesper is, but Kaz will pretend to be the necro, Jesper will pretend to be the cav, and they both get what they want-- Jesper can be a cavalier and be free from jail/the Fourth, and Kaz can get out of the Ninth and into the scrum of attempted lyctorhood to hitch a ride somehow.

(Except they don't. because Jesper flat-out refuses to kill Kaz and ascend and Kaz is hysterically furious, because his original plan was to basically trick Jesper into doing it wrong and seize control of his body, but he got attached and abandoned that plan and now doesn't know what to do. Having said that, if anyone could figure out perfect lyctorhood, it would be Kaz... Hope you want brown eyes Jesper.)

Yes his offhand is a revolver lmao

Inej (the Fifth-- tradition and debts to the dead, the Heart, the Watchers over the River.)

Cavalier, ofc, very very dutiful to her necromancer (one of her saints in the books??? Alina? Petyr? idk.) We don't know a whole lot about the Fifth but they seem (SEEM.) the most well adjusted of the lot, instead of the fucking balls to walls crazy Eight and Ninth lmao. I considered making her Kaz's cav but the idea made me want to throw up and lie down for ten hours, also the Jesper one is a bit more out there, and I refuse to give Kaz that much power lmao he needs to be a normal man he'd be too much of a menace with any kind of magic

Respectful of the Ninth and their weirdo monks until Kaz and Jesper open their mouths and reveal that not only do they talk, that they are also really really annoying and heretical

She works out very quickly that Kaz and Jesper are running a con and gets roped into it lol

Again I refuse to eliminate her backstory so it's gotta be in there somewhere, though I haven't worked out how yet. Perhaps she wasn't always part of the Fifth House, and was under Tante Heleen's thumb off-world...

Nina (the Third, for the gleam of a jewel or a smile, The Mouth, The Procession, The Shining Dead. Princess of Ida.)

But of course. The house that looks frivolous but is a deep well of backstabbing politics and intelligence.

Necro with a particular talent for flesh magic, which obviously is very close to her canon power. Not sure who her cav would be tho...?

Kaz hates her for all of those reasons and she makes a sport out of winding up the little uptight Ninth weirdo

But it's not as fun as flirting with...

Matthias (the Second, discipline, heedless of trial, The Strength, The Crimson Shield)

Second sounds like the Druskelle, no? Matthias is def a carefully trained cavalier, I would suggest Jarl Brum is his necro. Until he gets either killed or disposed of before he can kill Matthias and ascend...

Unless he DOES do that, and we keep Matthias dead in every universe. Sorry Nina. You and Kaz now have a common goal which is Get To The Bastards In The Sky And Kill Them.

Wylan (the Sixth, for the truth over solace in lies, the Reason.)

Genius little kid like Palamedes ig! I can see him being more into the theory than the practice and then, like canon, being underestimated. like a lot of the Sixth. Jesper def thinks he's nothing special until... he is.

I did consider putting Kaz in the Sixth soley for the truth over solace in lies but ultimately Kaz belongs in the horrible places like the Ninth and the Barrel, not the civilised academic environments like the Sixth and the merch Districts. Sorry bud. Another life.

No one really knows in the Sixth that Wylan can't read, bc he covers it up so well, but Van Eck threatens to expose it so he legs it to the Lyctor Convention <3

Kuwei can be Wylan's cavalier? Might explain the Jesper beef more lmao if Jesper is also a supposed cav trying to curry favour with Kuwei's necro, Wylan, rather than 'his necro', Kaz

(Giada also suggested that Alina can be Alecto and the Darkling can be John tho I'm not going all the way there other than to say Kaz Would Definitely Open The Tomb Because The Darkling Said Not To because he's an evil little git and also fatefully nosey and possibly bc Inej asked. And a lockpick. why would I put him in the place with the locked tomb without expecting the funniest possible outcome. also that would def make Zoya one of the OG lyctors a-la Mercymorn! Probably Genya and David too)

[velathetanager]

If the “Finale” for Ghost!Hoxton AU had a Promo

[Flashback; Young!Dallas is on one knee and hugging Young!Houston, who’s basically a child] Young!Houston: I'm gonna miss you, Nate. You promise to come and see me? [Cut to Dallas holding a glass of a mystery green liquid] Young!Dallas, voiceover: Don't worry, Derek. I'll always come back for you. You know that, don't you? [Silhouette illuminated by green light; Dallas drinks the liquid] Young!Houston, voiceover: Yeah. I know. [Dallas runs down a hall in the Prison Nightmare map and fights off a Bulldozer] Chains, voiceover: Dallas can't do this alone. Hox is pretty much a god there, he'll crush him. Bain, voiceover: I know that. [Houston, Watcher garb and all, stands on a building and a giant purple dragon rises up behind him, its eyes glowing the same color his are] Bain, voiceover: I'm more concerned about Houston. He's... he hasn't been doing well. [Houston guides his dragon in a fight with a monster] Bain, voiceover: Right now, he's the one thing that can protect us from Hoxton, and he knows that. If he keeps this up, he might not even want to go home. [Duke sits with the Gang gathered around him] Bain: And I think whatever's influencing Hoxton knows that. [The Necro Cloaker looks into a window in the prison; Dallas is hiding behind a corner] Hoxton, voiceover: Naaaaathaaaaan... I know you're there... [Houston trudges through a street, armed with a spear and with Kay in a shadowy form behind him] Hoxton, voiceover: Lover Boy's been a real pain, you know that? It's almost not worth keeping him here. [Hoxton is showing a tied-up Dallas "live video footage" of Houston making his way to the prison with a torn cape; Dallas looks horrified- then cut to Hoxton with a crazed grin] Hoxton: Almost. [Clips of Hoxton and Houston fighting, Duke doing some kind of BS to enter the dream realm (he has connections, I am convinced he knows stuff), Roscoe and Hector’s mutilated forms trapped in cells, Hoxton holding his head with two giant green eyes around him, and the Gang either in the realm or back home] Hoxton, voiceover: This was MY team! MY life! MY place! And I'll burn it all down before I let a cheap copy like you rip it away from me now that I'm like THIS! [Houston holds Hoxton in a stalemate, weapon to weapon, with their eyes flashing a brilliant purple and green respectively; Kay (reminder, she serves as Houston's voice since Hoxton took it) is behind him, screaming] Kay: HOXTON! YOU LISTEN TO ME NOW! [Cut to the title, whatever it is, and then a shot of Wolf asleep with a green aura around him]

[skeleton-or-die]

Uhhhhhh Gideon the Ninth/The Grand Master of Demonic Cultivation fusion/au/whatever

Lan Wanji is Harrow

Wei Wuxian is gideon, but gideon (WWX) is also an insanely gifted necro/cultivator but She Does It Wrong and Harrow (LWJ) is going to have an aneurysm.

And this is a gender/sex swap bc lesbians.

The Nies the second house probably.

Jins the 3rd.

I want Xue Yang in 4th house. I know it doesnt make sense with MDZS time/age wise but i dont care!!! Xue Yang and A-Qing as terrible teens!!! WWX is like wow these kids are fucked up im going to reveal to them that i do in fact talk and im going to talk about boobs in front of them and no one else, and no one will ever believe them.

Jiangs are the 5th house. (Watchers of the river!!!)

The Lans should probably be the 6th house but also. Consider how repressed and fucked up Lans are. We love cults.

Maybe Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen are 6th house. (Fuck the timelines. We only care about being gay and sad here)

Im not too sure about the Wens BUT. imagine them as the 7th house. Wen Ruohan taking the place of Dulcinea/Cynthera. Yikes.

Or maybe he's first house.

Or maybe Baoshan Sanren and Lan Yi are first house and they're busy being hot immortal lesbians in space, committing atrocities for funsies.

WWX would not be a ward of the jiangs in this. Unless. What if the 9th house is the burrial mounds instead of gusu. Think about that 👀👀👀

[contentloadingandstuff]

Mortuarius - Chapter II

He struggles against the restraints. To no avail, as the metal cuffs hold firm despite his desperate efforts. Still he fights with all his might - there's nothing else he can do. He sees only darkness, the blindfold's softness a mockery of his position. His nostrils are filled with the choking, stinging smell of antiseptic. The lab's cool air makes his naked body shiver.

A hand, covered by a rubber glove, is placed over his mouth. Something cold and wet is rubbed across a part of his neck before he feels a sharp sting. He jerks, but the substance quickly spreads through his veins. Waves of spasms shake his body, making his limbs tremble and quiver. They feel fuzzy, then numb. Heavy, clumsy, like timber. 

His mind clouds quickly and he starts choking back coppery foam. His body bends upwards in desperate search for relief. 

Heavy limbs. Cut them off. He wants to cut them off. He would rather not feel anything in them for his entire life than endure this. 

He hates this feeling.

His chest suddenly feels heavy, as if being crushed in a Lawachurl's hand. He coughs out more red foam. 

It's bad. Maybe they messed up, and he will get to actually die this time. 

He hopes so. 

A pair of arms grab his left thigh and stab a short, fat needle through the muscle. The warmth of feeling spreads through his paralyzed limbs, the numbness replaced with a searing pain in the relaxing muscles. It burns as if he was on fire, but from the inside. 

He labels it closer to frostbite than to real fire. He wonders if there will be burns or if it will just be black and blue. 

A mask is forced on his face. He doesn't protest. There's no energy left in him to do so. 

He can feel his lungs decompressing, and the crushing feeling fades. Slightly. 

He isn't grateful for this relief. There's no point. 

"One fifth of a syringe of solution C16 seems to work, although only partially. Taking into account the exceptional resistance to toxic substances of the test subject, I conclude that this portion wouldn't be able to function as intended. Give him a few hours and we will go again, this time with three of ten. Noted? "

"Noted."

The voices fade out into darkness, but the remnants of pain remain. The once stabbing pain turns to a scraping one, and grows in intensity. It's like sandpaper being dragged over exposed muscle tissue. 

He knows that feeling well. 

Denki awakes with a gasp to the sight of the Watcher sitting casually on the edge of the bed, a leather-clad book in his hand. Upon hearing the human groan, he stands up at once. After grabbing a metallic cylinder and removing the cap, revealing a long needle, he stabs it right below Denki's left breast.

Denki fights back, pushing through the fiery pain. He grabs Watcher's arm at the elbow and tries to force it away. His heart is pounding as he struggles with the undead's grip. His mind is buzzing with desperate call outs towards his whole being. He needs to resist, to push him away, to escape. His ferocity grows as more and more of the ampule's contents are pumped into his system. In a last ditch effort, just as barely any fluid remains, he punches Watcher's hand with his own, breaking the needle. 

Before he can turn and attempt to raise up, something pins his body to the bed. His eyes dart between his arms, but the force remains unseen. Blood is now seeping from his small wound.

"Calm down, fool." Watcher pays no mind to Denki's state, retrieving the broken needle tip from his body. He promptly swabs the wound with a piece of gauze. "This is a sedative. It will help the pain. Deep breaths, human." 

Upon hearing his voice, his heart slows slightly. He does as instructed while Watcher observes him carefully. The adrenaline fades out, and panic is replaced by a feeling of shame. 

Shame. He was treated so well, and yet he did something so unthankful. 

"I'm sorry sir." He says weakly, looking down at the slightly bloody gauze.

Watcher scoffs. "Sir? Do not call me that. My title is enough." He offers Denki his hand. "Try to sit up now." 

Stinging pain resonates through his spine as he pushes himself upwards. Watcher's cold fingerbones guide him to rest his back against the wall. He shivers at how cold the stone is, as his loose shirt does nothing to insulate him. 

"How are you feeling now? Any pain, any uncomfortable sensations?" 

"I'm nauseous. My stomach hurts…" In that awful, familiar way. "... but it's just that I'm hungry. The pain is better now. Thank you for the medicine."

The Watcher nods his head. "Wonderful. Let's get this body some nutrients. Come on now." He raises up. 

Denki sighs and slowly moves his legs to the side. He looks down at his legs. They are completely hairless, and the skin is somewhat paler than before. 

What he finds the most surprising is the complete lack of injuries, or even their leftovers. On the pristine skin there is not a single flaw. Not a single scar that he remembers. He takes a closer look, and still he discovers more. His worry grows into fear, and then into panic. 

There isn't a single scar he had before. There isn't a single mole he remembers. His legs, his torso, his arms aren't skinny. 

"This is n-not my body! W-what did you put me in?" He can't believe his eyes. 

This feels like a dream. Or rather a painful, alien nightmare. This isn't him. This is something else. 

He is somebody else. 

"Of course it isn't, human. Your previous vessel would not sustain your soul for more than a few days, maybe weeks if we would be lucky. We transplanted your soul."

"Into w-what?" 

"This vessel has been designed based on your body structure, but has been vastly improved to perform even in the harshest conditions. Your face is still as it used to be, do not be concerned with that." Watcher opens the heavy wooden door, revealing the room behind it. Denki spots a table and a few chairs. “Come on.”

The skeleton leaves. With some effort, Denki is able to lift himself up. His head starts spinning, so he pushes himself up against the wall. He rubs his temple, and that’s when he feels it. 

There’s a sense of heaviness in his arm, a slight delay between the intent and the movement. He moves his arm again, and feels just the same things, on top of a strange feeling of limpness within his muscles. It feels as if the limb was pulled not by itself, but by strings. It feels just like… a puppet. 

He turns towards the door, and places a few careful steps forward. His legs are infested with the same sensation. Although with some difficulty, he manages to move towards the door, all the time paying great attention to each slow step. 

One leg after the other. This time, nothing hurts, more importantly - nothing is broken. He remembers walking with a broken leg. The current sensation is much alike, yet it doesn’t feel as agonizingly painful. Just… strange. 

He passes through the doorway and enters what looks to be a dining room. It is nothing like what he remembers from home - the table and chairs suggest a mainland-style interior. The first thing that catches his attention is the exquisite artistry of the design. Although barely visible from afar, the sides of the black furniture piece are riddled with small silver runes. Despite the overbearing simplicity of their design, he can clearly make out what they represent. A fly. A spider. A scorpion. A moth. A wasp. A hornet. A locust. There is a break and, painted in a golden color, is the same eye symbol as on Watcher’s stole. He approaches the table and touches the decoration softly. The material is hard and cold, like stone. 

“Black marble to be exact.”

Denki snaps towards the undead, who is now sitting in one of the two exquisitely decorated chairs. 

“E-excuse me?” He hopes he just misheard something. If not, that would mean…

“Yes, I can read your mind. How do you suppose I came to know everything about you, Sakurai Denki?” The skeleton laughs, the voice echoing through his empty ribcage. “I asked you about the name out of courtesy. To break the ice, you understand.”

Denki doesn’t know what to think anymore. He walks towards the chair, and glances at the seat. He probes the thin pillow with his hand, and, assured, he sits down slowly. His limbs simultaneously sigh in relief. 

Another door, located behind Watcher’s seat, opens, and a man holding a tray comes into the room. Denki traces his movements as a porcelain bowl is placed in front of him, filled to the brim with grayish rice. Next to the bowl is a simple, metal spoon. 

In the meantime, Watcher takes a clay bowl from the hands of the newcomer. Denki spots white pockets inside it. 

He turns towards the other human. He is wearing a white apron, two thin, drooping strands of gray mustache decorating his wrinkled and worn face.  Despite his well-kept appearance, it was painfully obvious that time has not been kind on this man. Denki spots his slanted eyes and speaks out in Inazuman, shyly. 

“I’m sorry, sir, but I think you’ve mistaken me with someone.” He looks towards the Watcher, clueless. “Is this… really for me?”

“Is the meal not to your liking, Master Denki?” The chef replies in Inazuman, although his Liyue accent is clear to hear. 

“Master”? Denki quickly shakes his head. “No, no, I just…” He can’t find the right words. 

“It has been long since you ate like this, hasn’t it?” The Watcher asks, and reaches into his bowl. He retrieves one of the wrappings, and undoes it with his thin, skeletal fingers. Much to Denki’s surprise, a round, slightly transparent object is hidden within. It’s outside has an iridescent shine to it. 

“I… yes. I am just…” He clears his throat, looking back to the bowl. 

“Would you like some soy sauce on the side, Master Denki?” The old man smiles gently at him. “Our rice may not be Inazuman, but I prepared it to match seihakumai’s taste as much as possible.”

Denki takes the spoon in his hand, and slowly takes a small amount of grains off the top. He eats them, carefully tasting them. They are somewhat hard and a bit bitter, but fairly good overall. 

“If that wouldn’t be a problem t-then… Yes, please.” 

“I will be back shortly.” The chef leaves, quietly shutting the door behind him. 

Denki takes another portion, this time larger in quantity, and inspects it. He finds nothing except the gray rice on the spoon. After another short moment of hesitation he eats it all in one bite. He takes another spoonful, now sparing just a quick glance. He speeds up, shoving portion after portion of the bare rice into his mouth, so fast that his throat barely has time to swallow before another dose enters his mouth. 

Denki forgot how hungry he was. This rice, as bare and devoid of addons as it is, is the best he had tasted in his life. He doesn’t care if there are pins, needles or razors inside the bowl. He wouldn’t mind them anyway - just the chance to eat rice again is worth all the pain and blood. 

He practically inhales the dish, but tastes not a single metallic drop of his own blood. 

Perhaps he got lucky. 

“T-thank you, I… Thank you!” He exclaimed, earning a nod from the Watcher. Even if he had no lips, Denki could sense he was smiling. 

“That was chef Liao Wei. He has been working here for over fifty years. His cooking is impeccable, I must admit.” Watcher lifts one of the gemstones up to his jaws, and crushes it. The remains drop down on the table, joining a small pile already there. 

“What are those… “ He stops. He steadies himself, and adds in an unsure, whispered tone: “... Watcher?”

“Ley Line Candy. You have heard of Ley Lines before, yes?” 

“Yes, I did. They contain memories, right?”

“That is correct, human. Within this small piece of crystal a memory is contained.” He lifts it up towards the lantern adorning the ceiling, and Denki can see a slight greenish tint on the inside of the candy. “The memory resonates with my Core, and I can experience it again. Those contain Sunsettia. Do you want to taste one?”

“A… Core? Do I have one in this body?”

“Yes, you do have one. It is necessary to keep your soul contained. It should work.” Watcher passes Denki the treat. “Crack it with your teeth.” 

Denki does as instructed, and immediately a peachy sweetness hits his tongue, a sensation of soft pressure on his gums and teeth, just as if he was biting into the fruit itself. He can tell it is a ripe one, just from the taste. He removes the crystal pieces from his mouth, placing them into his empty bowl. The taste lingers for a good while before fading out. 

“This is… fantastic. Truly incredible. How come you are able to get those memories from the Ley Lines?”

“That is a professional secret, I’m afraid.” Again, Denki feels him smile, even despite his skull remaining blank. He senses no sarcasm or mockery in his voice. “Now, Sakurai Denki, I expect you have a lot of questions about your predicament. Ask now, and I will answer you.”

Denki considers this for a moment, before crafting his reply. “Where am I?”

“You are in the city of Castra, the capital of the Necro Archon’s nation. You would not be able to find it on any maps of Teyvat, aside from our own of course. For centuries it has been hidden from mortal eyes.”

“For what purpose? I-if I may ask.” 

The Watcher bites down on another piece of candy. “Strategic reasons. The Necro Archon’s relationship with The Seven is complicated, you see. I’m guessing you want to know more about him?”

Denki nods. Liao Wei comes into the room, and places a small, wooden saucer, filled to the brim with dark liquid. Just a whiff confirms the contents. Much to his surprise, just when he is about to ask for seconds, a bigger bowl of rice is placed in front of him. Chef Liao thwarts his attempt at speaking. 

“I hope you don’t mind, Master Denki, but I brought you a second serving. You don’t look like a bountiful eater.” He bows slightly. “Forgive the comment.” 

“N-no, it’s fine, chef. And please, call me by my name. I don’t deserve-”

“I apologize, Master Denki, but this is what courtesy requires.” He quickly backs towards the door. “Now excuse me, please. I will go prepare the dessert now.”

He leaves before Denki can utter a single word. Watcher chuckles. 

“The Necro Archon chose him personally.”

Denki furrows his brow. “How come? Isn’t he unable to taste? Since, he’s the god of undead…”

“He can take on many forms, both living and undead. Though most times he remains in a skeletal body, on occasion he changes to a mortal one. He visited the official cooking contest under a mortal disguise, one that he removed only in front of the winner.” He sighs. “Liao’s face will forever be ingrained in my mind.”

“What is his name?”

“His divine name is Beleth, although here, in the nation of Umbra, he is known as The Great One.” 

“Great One… If I am allowed to ask, how did he earn this title?”

Watcher scoffs. “His might is beyond comparison in the mainland. Throughout history, The Great One bested gods of power beyond the human mind to comprehend. For centuries He has been watching over the people of Umbra, granting us protection and mercy. Respect is the least we can do in return for His kindness."

"I understand." Denki adds the final spoon of sauce to his food. "What happened to Inazuma while I was… gone?" 

"Well, I don't have good news. The Fatui conspiracy resulted in a civil war, and the introduction of the Sakoku Decree. Inazuma has been sealed off from the rest of the continent."

Denki nods slightly. He moves around the final grains of rice on his plate, speechless. 

What was he expecting even? The Kamisato Clan to rescue the situation? Kujou Sara to see through the lies? The Raiden Shogun to save her loyal subjects? 

His head throbs. He moves his hand to caress his forehead. 

"The sacrifice of yourself and your parents has gone to waste. Nobody questioned the Archon's decision. Especially not the Guuji. Lives sacrificed, by soldiers, nobles and commoners alike, all for nothing."

"S-stop! Do you have to r-rub it in?!" Denki lashes out, but quickly hides his face in his hands. "Just… please. Don't." He does his best to hide the quivering of his voice, to little effect. 

"Not all is lost. You are back, Denki, the last of the Sakurai. The Necro Archon gave you a chance, one you should not waste. A chance for vengeance."

Vengeance. A part of him wants to lie down, to never get up again. He doesn't want to feel the pain of this new body, he doesn't want to remember past agony. He just wants to go, where it doesn't matter. Beyond this world. A part of him wants the peacefulness of death. 

Yet another craves for something more. He held onto his life, his final possession for eight painful years, just to trample on his effort now? He survived, prevailed. He is still young. He has the time to make things right. To make then pay. 

He grits his teeth, and wipes his eyes with his forearm. 

"What is the price?" Denki looks up at the Watcher. "What does The Great One expect in return?" 

"Your services, Sakurai Denki. You will be fed, clothed, kept warm and trained, and as payment the Necro Archon will make use of your skills. You have already been brought back here, have you not?" The Watcher leans forward, and tilts his head slightly. "Rejection of such an offer would be foolish and disrespectful of His generosity." 

Denki takes a deep breath, finally regaining clarity of mind. "I accept the offer. Help me, and I will join your ranks."

"A good choice, human." The Watcher raises up. "Come now. Let us meet your new mentor."

Thanks for reading!

[contentloadingandstuff]

Mortuarius - Chapter I

Darkness. 

Images. Colors. Blurry shapes of days past. Dark spots. Bright light. 

Everything he saw. 

Voices. Soft, caring. Cruel and mocking. All blend into one incomprehensible cacophony. 

Elegance. Lightness. Freedom. 

No pain. 

It doesn't hurt. 

At last. 

Peace. 

Quiver. Tremble. Something snaps into place. 

His hands are bound. A sensation of falling. He screams. Something chokes him. Something envelops his chest, warm and heavy on his being. He tries to pull, push it off, scratch it away. His fingers become fat, clumsy, rough, warm. 

Again. 

He opens his mouth and instead of the nothingness of before a gust of air hits him. 

More, more. His body wants more. His throat is overwhelmed, he can't get it to open, he can't… breathe. 

A hand grips his throat, thumb pressing into his windpipe, forcing it open again. Air, more delicious, fresh air. 

His ears are ringing. His muscles refuse to move, leaving his body limp. He snaps his eyelids open, only to be greeted by a blurry blend of colors. His ears work again, hitting him with a barrage of sounds. 

Words, talking. A dialogue. He doesn't understand them. He hears a new combination of sounds, new vowels, new words. A foreign language.

"Subject is awake, respiratory issue removed, continuing to monitor." The voice isn't far away, two, maybe three steps away. 

He wants to puke. His senses aren't ready, not yet. He doesn't want to go back. He wants to move on. 

He wants to die. 

He would give in to the nausea, but his mind speaks against it. He knows what they will do if he misbehaves. 

He closes his eyes, and tries to move his hands. 

Pain. 

He howls as the feeling overwhelms him. Sharp pain appears in both of his arms, the feeling akin to having needles shoved into his flesh. He clenches his hands over what's underneath him in reflex, bringing forth even more agony. His eyes roll back into his skull as his body shakes and trembles. 

"Syringe. Syringe! Give it here!" Another voice, echoing, unfamiliar, completely incomprehensible. 

Among the barrage of the torturous stabbing he notices a real injection. Somebody injects him with something, he wants to panic, to defend himself, but the suffering proves too great to overcome. His hands are gripping the soft material, the only action he has the clarity to take. 

The screaming continues. He feels like his throat has been massacred by a cheese grater. He feels the familiar, coppery taste in his mouth. Suddenly, many cold, hard hands grip his limbs and torso. They hold him down, speaking in their strange language. Among the exchange his ears singled out a familiar note. Inazuman.

"Shh, shh, calm down. I know it hurts, but it's fine now. You're not in danger. We will help you." Someone places a hand on his forehead. It's cold, hard, but smooth all the same. Not like a glove, or a hand. 

Like bone. 

He listens on. The pain starts to fade rapidly. What? What did they do to him? His torture ends, enabling his breathing to retake it's slow, rhythmic pace - slowly, yes, but surely. His hands loosen up, allowing the whitened flesh to finally rest. He lets his jaw drop, finally lifting the pressure from his new, complete set of teeth. 

Black spots dance before his closed eyes. 

"If you can hear me, close your left hand." The voice is calm, steady. Soothing. He does as it asks. 

"Subject is sapient." The voice turns unfamiliar, and then familiar again. "How are you feeling?" 

He opens his mouth to speak, but a feeling of dryness overcomes him. He coughs. A rough whisper is all he can manage. 

"Wat.. er…" 

"Bottle." A straw is pressed on his lips. "Here." 

He greedily takes the straw and starts drinking. Cool, fresh, nourishing water pours into his throat, raw and bloody from his screams. The taste of copper is washed away. He stops only when there is nothing left in the straw. 

"I take it you're feeling better now?" 

"Yes." He says, now more clarity in his exhausted voice. "Where… am I? Who are you?" 

"Tell Lord Sunqu the procedure was a success. Leave me with him." Footsteps ring out in the room, and he hears the door click shut. "You are on an island far from the shores of Snezhnaya. We will bring you back to health, don't worry. They won't reach you here."

He ponders on the words briefly, before carefully picking the question. "How can I trust you?" 

The thing laughs, voice dry, artificial and echoing. "Think about it. You have no other option, do you?" A pause. "I'm sure you have a name, human."

"Denki. S-Sakurai Denki." The black spots slowly fade out, his head throbbing at a bearable level now. Denki slowly cracks open his eyes, wet from tears of agony. 

His eyes instantly land on the thing beside him. On a luxurious armchair next to him sits a dark figure, the volume of its jet black robe contrasting with the slimness of the skeletal legs, protruding from the cascading fabric, one  casually resting over the other. The bones, polishes to a perfect, pristine white, reflected the bright yellow light from the chandelier overhead. The hood of the robe was pulled back, revealing the skull. It was complete and undamaged, no teeth missing and the jaw in place. Among the pitch black of the sockets were two small, bright pupils. The undead twirls a pencil in its right hand, the other resting over a clipboard. Both of them are covered in black, tight leather gloves. 

The only colorful element of the outfit is a green stole. The emerald silk is lined with golden thread, forming a beautiful pattern around the edges. On the left end of the cloth is a series of strange and complex symbols, ones he had never encountered before. On the right one are two pictograms. The very end of the fabric is taken up by a combination of three circles, layered together with geometric patterns filling up the spaces in between them. Inside the smallest one is a turned square connected to the circle with thin, straight lines. Inside the square there's a small diamond, making the whole symbol resemble an eye. Above it is a woven depiction of a fly. It remains impressive, even despite the design's simplicity. 

The undead laughs, pulling Denki's mind back to reality. "Mesmerizing, is it? I'll have you know that it was woven by the same craftsman that created Beelzebub's kimono."

Denki furrows his brows. "Is he… undead too?" 

His interlocutor scoffs. "The Necro Archon doesn't condone wasting talent."

"The Necro Archon? Is he one of the seven…" Denki looks at the skeleton in front of him, searching for the right term. "... sir?" 

"Hm. Many call me The Watcher, for I am the guardian and caretaker of Nindānu. You might use that title as well." He lowers his clipboard. "He is indeed. The eighth of them. But it is not important now."

The Watcher raises up, placing his instruments on the armchair. He walks towards Denki, and gently pushes his chest down so that he lays back on the bed. "You are weak. Judging from the pain, the soul has not adjusted yet."

"What does that mean?" He looks down at his body, finding its skin tone to be far paler than before. "Am I d-dead?"

Watcher rests his hand on the human's forehead briefly, before retracting it and turning around. Denki's eyes catch a silver tray, and his heart immediately picks up. "No, of course not. If you would be, would you feel pain? Or thirst?" 

The liche turns around. In his hand is a glass ampule containing a few droplets of a dense, purple fluid. 

The prickling of tears behind his eyes return, and so does the pain. Everything flashes before his eyes, the all too familiar sinking feeling in his chest making its return. He tries to move, to run, to escape, but his attempts die at the immense stabbing in his muscles. His chest is rising rapidly. "N-no… please… d-don't!" 

Watcher's fingers travel to the cap, ready to break the seal. "Don't worry, Denki. This is not poison. It will help you sleep, as well as ease the pain. Your soul needs to rest, it has to recover. To get adjusted to your new body."

"What did you do to m-me?" He asks, voice shaky and unsure. 

"How about a deal? You'll take this, and then I will answer your question. You'll wake up in about ten, twelve hours, and then I will give you something to eat." Though his voice, despite its unusual nature, is soft, the resting grin of his bleached skull tears all the comfort from his words. Denki weighs his options. 

"Alright, but can you tell me now? I don't think I will stay awake long enough to h-hear it."

"Ah, you're quite sound of mind. Very well." His jaw moves as a human's would, but the sound seems to originate from underneath his robes. "We have transplanted your soul. Your previous body couldn't sustain it anymore. Or, in simpler terms, you died and lived again." 

Denki looks away. 

He hoped otherwise. 

"Why?" Tears make their way down his bright skin. 

"I have told you that the Necro Archon doesn't approve of wasting talent, have I not? I trust in his choice, and so should you." Watcher turns the wooden tip, and the glass cracks open quietly. "And, so far, you are the only mortal that has survived this procedure. In two thousand years' time. Do you understand your value now?" 

Denki nods slightly. Watcher removes the tip, and places the vial near his nose. A sharp, minty smell overwhelms his nostrils. He wants to gag, but he knows better.

He promised he will behave, and there’s no telling what Watcher could do to him if he misbehaved. 

He doesn’t know his punishments. Not yet.

“Sleep, human. You have much to achieve.”

—

The Watcher steps over the threshold, his bare feet touching the rough tiles of the balcony. His bones transfer the texture well, but its temperature remains for him to guess. He bows his head upon laying eyes on the figure in front of him. 

“Lord Sunqū. The subject is alive and fares relatively well. His soul has not settled in, but that is just a matter of time now.”

Sunqū doesn’t bother to turn around. Watcher observes his master’s robes flowing in the harsh coastal wind, held down by the Inazuman armor. The golden decoration on his kabuto holds firm, glimmering brightly in the moonlight. 

“Very good.”

A rat emerges from underneath Watcher’s robes. His eyes trace its movements as it approaches Sunqū. It stops behind him, the small body vibrating with the intense beating of the creature’s small heart. It raises up on its back legs and bites down on the tattered black robe, pulling it with all its might. Sunqū taps the railing with his finger, and the rat turns its attention towards the sound. Despite its famished appearance, it proves agile enough to jump up on the railing. It waddles over to its master, who stretches out his hand towards the animal. It climbs up him, the filthy tail wrapping itself around the yellowed bones for support. 

Sunqū turns around. The brown rat moves up his armor and squeezes into the chest cavity through the collar bone. It moves around in the robe, pushing out piles of cream-white maggots right onto the floor. Watcher, not daring to look into the eye sockets hidden behind the bird mask, keeps his gaze restrained to his teeth. A sharp and slim tongue slides out from between the crooked, bloody teeth, and covers them in black, oozing sludge. 

“I never fail.”

Thank you for reading!

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Mortuarius - Chapter III

"Move! Move!" 

Denki feels a strong arm slam his back, propelling him forward. He nearly collapses on the stone pavement, but manages to regain balance quickly, retaining the merciless running pace. His whole body is screaming, muscles crying out with ripping pain. It's the ninth lap, and his knees are about to give out. Yet he pushes on, determined to meet his trainer's quotas. He straightens himself out, sweat drenching his tank top, and jogs forward. 

And to think he was expecting to be cold in his outfit. 

After Watcher led him to his new "mentor", there wasn't much time for him to rest and get his bearings. The very next day marked the start of his training programme. Both of the undead said that, if he wants to become worthy of joining The Legion, he must be up to par with their capabilities, or bring something unique to the table. Since the human never trained or fought much before, he was clueless as to what he could offer. Aldehan Adler, his new assigned supervisor, stated that the only way to find out more about his talents would be bringing them out by training. Worry sparked in his chest, for what mercy could he expect from someone like him? 

He stumbled on a small crevice between the stones, dragging the attention to himself once again. It was hard to not be the most interesting part of the session when he was the only one training. Adler screamed out to him, and though his voice was deep and echoing, the human could sense a certain fierceness and anger lining the words.

"So far, you're proving to be more of a potential liability than an asset. Get. A. Grip." Adler hisses through his teeth, making Denki groan and push onwards through the pain. 

Adler's irises twitch in satisfaction. Although the fresh meat was weak, it could listen to orders. He crossed his arms, watching as Denki moved on to the last segment of the loop. The exhaustion is clear to see in his every movement. The clumsiness of his steps, the slow pace, the limpness of his arms. And yet, despite all that, Denki keeps moving. 

When Watcher first brought the human to his chambers, Adler only laughed. Denki looked pale, disoriented and weak. He wasn't anywhere near fit to be a soldier, let alone in his formation. Membership required skill, devotion and determination, and at first Adler saw in him only faults and flaws. His human-like condition aside, it quickly came to light that Denki couldn't even complete the warm up of ten running laps. After the sixth he fell, knees buckling and breathing heavily, hands scraped to blood on the flooring. Adler genuinely expected him to curl up and cry, like some of the mortal militia he takes on sometimes. Just as the undead was about to mock the mortal, Denki stood up. With much pain he dragged himself upward, and waded on. Of course, Adler didn't want to interrupt him - he only had to step in when, at the ninth lap, Denki nearly coughed his lungs out. 

It would be safe to say that, despite the ending flop, Adler was pleased with him. If nothing else, Denki had the determination to complete his training. 

As the first few days passed by, the general would come to learn more about his trainee. Except for the resolve, the young Sakurai had an unusual pain resistance as well. Despite the intense cardio and hours long training, he never complained or whined about exhaustion. To test this, Adler ordered him to drop down and do push ups, presenting the action to be purely for his own amusement. The hatred for him, pulsing and throbbing through Denki's entire body, was extremely obvious. But among the racing images of violently killing his mentor, Adler sensed no regret. 

Even when Denki was allowed to stop after thirty seven push ups, far beyond his endurance of that time, he still walked to his quarters by himself and came back tomorrow, fresh and ready to improve. The muscle gain was also noticeable, or more precisely - it's unnatural speed. 

But that would be nothing unusual for The Fly Lord's work. As much as the thought of Sunqu made Adler's non-existing stomach turn, he couldn't refute his superior designs' perfection. 

Agonizingly, the human dragged his body towards the finish line, his jog a laughable parody of the word "run". When he arrived at the destination, Denki fell to his knees, panting heavily. Adler nodded. 

“Decent performance. Catch your breath, and we’ll move to the next exercise." 

Relieved and immensely thankful, Denki drops to the ground. His eyes, barely ajar after the strenuous cardio, lie idly on Adler's form as the undead speaks in his language. In comparison to all the other undead he met so far, Adler stood lower in posture, yet he was still bigger than Watcher. Despite his unremarkable stature, the general instilled a passive aura of command and competence. He spoke with confidence, loud and imperative in each word. Adler's equipment was more than fitting for a general. His golden, decorative armor was complimented by a thin wool cloak, covering his back down to his shins and extending into a full hood. Steel boots struck the ground with audible heaviness as he walked, so much so that every undead he passed could recognise him by his steps alone. His skeletal hands were covered by thick leather, concealing their true fragility. Denki never once saw him without his blade by his side, sheathed, but imposing nonetheless. Aside from the fairly modest, weathered crown on his hooded skull, the most eye-catching trinket of his was the handful of small, metal items attached to his belt. Some were thin and slightly damaged, others were thick and whole, every one of them maintained and polished to perfection. The sigil resembled a flame of sorts, not unlike the spread wings of a phoenix without its head or legs. When he moved, the baubles would clatter against his armor, announcing his arrival in tune with his thundering footsteps. The clasp to his cape was a black Vision, with a white eye symbol engraved within. The bronze casing consisted of two sharp, polished shards on the gemstone's top and bottom. 

With a groan of extortion, Denki lifted his exhausted body back to a standing position. His eyes landed on a wooden table Adler was pointing at. 

"Pick one." Adler said. 

With nothing else to do, Denki approached the wooden structure. On the worn out wood lies a selection of weapons. A sword, a katana, some sort of a curved sword he saw on pictures from Sumeru, a thin Fontaine rapier, and a heavy claymore. Every blade is painted matte black, but the frequent scratches of silver prove that the armaments are not newly forged. Denki reaches for the sword, just as his teacher suggested before. He stops, and turns back to look at Adler. 

"Who will I be facing, master?" Despite his best efforts, his voice doesn't sound firm and confident, coming out more as a fearful plea. 

Adler points behind him with his thumb. "A rankman. Standard issue equipment, standard training, average skill. He shouldn't be a challenge for you, if you were listening at all these past few days."

The words of Adler hold no comfort as Denki looks over at his opponent. The skeleton, clad in plate armor, stands taller than the general, nearly matching his own height. The skull, with the unmissable and ever piercing white irises in the eye sockets, is well maintained and whole. The helmet is a fairly standard steel cover with twisting horns of a ram mounted on the sides. Just as its superior, the Wight has full chest, arm and leg armor, coupled with leather gloves and high boots reinforced with steel plates. Its sword, still sheathed, was accompanied by a broad shield. 

The undead sends its mortal opponent a friendly nod, and Denki turns back to the table. The weapons were dulled, so the risk of cutting would be minimal. Not like cutting the skeleton would do anything, of course. And so wouldn't stabbing it. Despite the claymore being the sensible option in his mind, Denki looks towards the katana. This is definitely the weapon he is most acquainted with, or at least that is what he thinks. The sword looks familiar to him, and rests well in his hand. He is from Inazuma, so he most likely used it before. Even despite his hardest efforts, he can't seem to recall any specific memories. 

He picks up the blade, and turns to Adler. "I will take this. What are the rules?" 

Adler eyes Denki, his voice full of unmissable amusement. "Three hits for you and first blood for him. You'd want to get a shield for that."

Something creeps into his mind. Someone told him in the past that a shield is a weapon of cowards. Denki shakes his head politely, and slowly walks away from Adler, getting into stance. 

These words… Who shared them? His father, or his teacher? Maybe he read that somewhere? His mind holds no answers, just more questions. 

His eyes never leave his opponent. The skeleton walks up to its place slowly, plates quietly rattling against each other as he moves. Denki narrows his eyes. It doesn't seem too agile, with all of that armor weighing it down. If he manages to dodge attacks, he will surely win. He takes a deep breath. 

"I'm ready." He says, adjusting his grip. 

"Ready." The skeleton replies. 

Adler steps back. "Begin!" 

The skeleton moves first, stepping up to him and striking right away. Denki dodges to his side, catching the blow with the edge of his sword. He tries a quick riposte, but the skeleton takes the full force of the blow on his shield. Sparks fly into the air as the attack slides off of the steel surface. The human barely manages to stop a hew aimed at his side. Despite his fast reaction, he fails to dodge it completely - the tip of the blade grazes his Chest plate. He returns the attack right away, but once again it is blocked. Denki is able to block an overhead chop, striking the undead's blade right as it swings down. He tries to spin around to deliver a hit on the recovering enemy's side but he is struck with its armored shoulder, making him stumble back. He manages to whip his katana into position to just barely block an incoming strike, but the next attack comes too quickly to react. The heavy shield's edge is struck forward, landing right on his face. 

The sheer force of the sends him back. His foot, placed awkwardly and unable to stabilize him, bends and Denki tumbles to the ground. His skull slams on the stone bricks paving the training square, making his vision go dark. His hands tremble, desperately searching for his weapon. Just then does his adrenaline rush come down, and the throbbing, sharp pain in his jaw makes itself known. He screams out in pain and clutches his bleeding mouth, eyes squeezing shut. He rolls to his side and curls slightly, breath heaving and tears welling in his eyes. He feels blood pouring from his wound, and so he spits it out on the floor. As his vision slowly comes back, deep, mocking laughter fills his ears.

"I told you what to use, didn't I? But no, you wouldn't listen. Now look at you, squirming like a worm and crying like a baby." Adler crouches down to his level, and pries Denki's hands away, gripping his jaw painfully to examine the wound. "Ow, the toddler got his tooth knocked out and now he's throwing a tantrum! What a despicable excuse for a man you are, Sakurai Denki."

A slap falls on Denki's face, adding insult to injury. Adler lets go of him and stands up. A muffled sob escapes the human's lips as he rolls over and tries to stand up. After dragging himself up to his feet, pain and tears clouding his vision, he comes face to face with Adler. 

"Get out of my face, scum." Adler points towards the gate leading out of the training field. "Come back when you stop being a whiny maiden. I don't want the likes of you anywhere near the Legion."

"Y-yes, master. I'm sorry." Denki looks down in shame. 

"Out. I don't want to see you back here unless you decide to get a grip." Adler growls, his irises gaining a red hue. "OUT!"

Without further ado, Denki scurries back towards the gates. The skeleton guard looks at him emotionless as he passes by. His fingers, stained red with the running blood, rest on his face protectively. Not because of the pain, but due to shame. 

How could he? How could he not mind the words of his mentor, his guard, his teacher? He is meant to heed his advice, learn from him, trust his judgment and words. He wants the best for him, does he not? And yet he disregarded his words of wisdom and paid the price for his own stupidity. He deserved it, all of it. He is worthless, useless, whimsy and weak. Denki cries silent tears of embarrassment as he makes his way down the Citadel's corridors. His pathetic feet place unworthy steps on the dusty red carpet lining the passage. 

One thought rages through his mind as he knocks on a heavy, dark oak door. 

How could he be so ungrateful? 

"Come in." 

Denki pushes the door open, his eyes landing on a familiar figure. Sitting by the wooden desk is Watcher, a notebook in his hands. The pages are filled with an unknown scripture. The Liche turns to face the newcomer, and sighs. 

"With what do you come today?" 

Denki uncovers his mouth. "Tooth."

Watcher motions to a large adjustable surgical chair, and turns back to his writing. Denki slowly makes his way to the pointed seat, and lowers himself to rest on it. He always felt somewhat uneasy in his caretaker’s lab. Although he knew that the skeleton wouldn’t do harm, the familiarity of his tools was far from comforting. As he settles down, Watcher offers a clean piece of gauze in his gloved hand. 

“Bite down on this.” Denki does as instructed, wincing as pressure is placed on his wound. He looks over to his right, and sees the Liche cleaning the mouth spreader. Just the sight of the polished cage of small metal rods brings him back. 

“Iz that really nesheshary?” He speaks, bindings still soaking in excess blood. The guardian turns to him, his irises narrowing. 

“If you will restrain yourself from flinching and let me work, then no. If you do, then I’m going to put it on. Did I make myself clear?”

Denki nods, and much to his relief, the device is placed back on the counter. Watcher opens a drawer, replaces his gloves with thinner, rubber ones, and retracts a few surgical tools. He grabs a stool and places it next to the chair. The trainee gulps as the tools close in. 

Gently, the blood soaked gauze is removed, revealing Denki’s mouth. Watcher hums, and turns to a nearby tray. 

“The first front tooth on the left is broken in half. I will have to pull out the root, but don’t worry. You’ll get a new one right away.” The human’s eyes anxiously watch as his medic eyes a scalpel and a pair of pliers. Just the sight makes his hands clutch the armrests tightly.

Denki closes his eyes. Every muscle tenses as the cold metal touches his skin. Suddenly, the scalpel cuts into his gums, slashing the tissue like butter. Denki whines, and tears dribble down his cheeks. His grip becomes iron, mind focused on calming itself down. Blood wells in his mouth when the cut is made. Setting down the scalpel means no relief, as Watcher takes the pliers right away. The tool wanders around his mouth, probing the wound and looking for a suitable angle. His skin crawls as the sounds of steel hitting his tooth become audible. 

“Right here…”

Watcher’s voice is quiet when the pliers lock on their target. Denki braces himself, and the awful sensation of ripping floods his mind. He wants to scream, cry, escape, but he knows better than to misbehave. 

The pain is brief, but awful still. Watcher quickly presents Denki with the bloodied remnant of his tooth. He sighs heavily in relief, and closes his eyes. The sound of shuffling reaches him, and Denki looks in the direction curiously. Watcher drops the tooth into a cloth bag, setting it on the counter. His hand reaches a handle and tugs on it, revealing a cupboard full of teeth. The bones, of all shapes and sizes, are each placed on a piece of cotton and marked with symbols he isn’t familiar with. Watcher picks one and slides the rest back into storage. After a short cleaning and another change of gloves, he positions himself back on the stool. Wiping the blood, he places the tooth into Denki’s jaw. A firm twist is all it takes to fit the missing part into his jaw. Watcher taps the enamel a few times, ensuring its stability. He nods to himself.

“Fixed. Don’t drink anything too hot or cold for some time now. The nerve endings need time to fuse back together. Does the injury feel numb?” He asks, offering Denki a bundle of cotton. 

He takes it, and gently swabs it on the injury a few times. “Yes. It feels strange…”

“It’s normal. The feeling will be back in an hour or so. How are your hands?” He points a finger to Denki’s hands, still locked over the armrests. He takes a breath and presents them.

The pale skin on the insides is littered with purple and red cuts, some scabbed over, others still exposed, but not one bleeding. Watcher rubs his finger over the biggest ones, gauging his patient’s reaction. The human only hisses quietly. 

“They’re healing up nicely.” He chuckles, but Denki only frowns in response. “At least he taught you how to hold a sword proper, no?”

Denki looks away and remains silent. Watcher shakes his head, and pats the mortal’s cheek with his blood-smeared hand. Denki gets up. He turns for the door, but he hears his caretaker’s voice behind him. 

“Wipe those tears. At least try to look presentable.”

Denki shuts the door behind him with a loud thud, and turns on his heel. His head throbs as he marches towards his room. He doesn’t feel the pain anymore, a sensation of dullness resonating through his jaw. 

Exhaustion, anger and pain mix inside him, threatening to boil over at any point. Denki pushes his door open, and, with all his resolve, stops himself from slamming it shut. Desperately he pushes his thoughts away, focusing on unbuckling the armor and stripping down. 

He’s just tired, he thinks. That is why he is feeling angry. He needs to take a shower and rest his head for a while. Yes, rest will resolve everything, he figures while stepping into the rudimentary bathroom. Mistakes happened today, his mistakes. He was at fault here. It was he who disregarded the words of his teacher, insulting him. Adler had all the right to react as he did. Perhaps he should be grateful for being set straight. 

They care, for sure. Otherwise, why would they be so strict, if not wanting to keep him safe and alive in his future encounters?

He sighs as the hot water hits his white back, steam quickly building up, filling his lungs and nostrils with the comfortable, stuffy sensation. He can feel his body relax, and he gives into the feeling. 

One thought sticks in his mind, however. Should he? Should he indulge himself? Today, he made several big mistakes and was punished for it. Nevermind his missteps, this type of behavior will only get him used to comfort and safety, won’t it? A warrior’s life is never easy, and treating himself will only cause more pain when these distractions are taken away. 

He can’t do this. Adler was right. These types of pleasures are for whiny damsels, not for real men. Real men must suffer to succeed. He can’t weaken himself with luxuries, else he becomes what his mentor suggested - a pathetic excuse of a man. 

Denki growls and moves his aching arm to turn the valve of the shower, turning the pleasantly warm water frigid. He screams as the icy liquid pours on him, body trembling from the sudden change in temperature. 

This is the way. 

It’s for his own good.

He deserves this.

—

A wave of chill strikes him as he steps out from the Citadel. The scarf does its job, but the cold wind still bites his exposed face, reddening the porcelain skin. Denki’s breath is fogging. He looks up at the sky for the first time since… forever, he thinks. A sigh of disappointment leaves his lips when his vision is filled with thick, gray clouds. Not a single ray of sun pierces unimpeded through them, covering the city with gloom. He doesn’t fail to notice the unnatural purplish tint of the skies above him. 

His eyes fall lower, resting on the city in front of him. Only a handful of structures tower over the rough level of the capital, impressive in their stature. Below them the buildings are a blend of gray and black, with a few sprinkles of color here and there - sticking out like candy amongst ashes. Every chimney in the city pumps out smoke, warming the inhabitants within the homes below, and filling him with a certain sense of… coziness. He shudders as another gust of wind blows icy droplets of rain into his face. 

His underground dorm beneath the Citadel has little commodities, no doubt about that, but at least it is warm.

Although the downpour makes them hard to pick up, Denki can just faintly hear sounds of the hustle and bustle, unlike that of Inazuma City. His brow furrows at the thought of street vendors and passersby going about their business in such weather. Despite the noticeable scarcity of decorations, the black banners hang frequently from underneath roofs and overpasses. On the soaked, black material the eye symbol is intricately sewn, its gaze piercing and unrelenting on anyone who dares to look at them. Over the tall wall surrounding the Citadel, only a few spots catch his eye. He sees a few balconies hanging above the streets. Their whole construction has not an inch of wood, consisting of painted steel and stone instead. Warm, orange light pours from the windows and doorways behind them, painting the lush potted plant life in bright softer color. 

The rain doesn’t seem to let up. Unsurprisingly, the undead within the Citadel’s perimeter move about and patrol unphased, their armors slippery and shining with moisture. Wooden crates are being carried from a point outside his range of view, and placed on iron carts mounted on rails. The individual forges lining the sides of the barrier form a hermetic link over the left area, stopping only as the main exit route parts the two fragments on the courtyard. To his right, he hears the audible clash of weaponry. He looks over, noticing multiple pairs of knights, locked in individual duels. The fight with no boundaries - shoving, kicking, bashing with shields - Denki notices one undead using his fists, his sword laying far from him and his sparring partner. 

Suddenly, Denki feels a hand on his shoulder. He snaps around, pushing the stranger’s arm away. Much to his embarrassment, behind him stand two armored guards. Contrary to the trainees in the courtyard, they have matte-black chest plates and arm guards, their armors split in half by a leather strap holding their rifles firmly on their backs. Every one of the four irises is focused on him. 

“Forgive me for this interruption, sir.” The undead speaks, in a deep, dull tone. “I couldn’t help but notice you, standing here for a few minutes now. Do you need any help? Are you unwell?”

Denki pulls down his mouth cover and replies. “I… Yes. It’s my first time outside, to tell you the truth. Lord Watcher gave me permission to visit the city, but I am not sure where to go. He gave me some coins, but I can’t read the symbols on them.”

After fishing the small pouch from his coat’s pocket, he pulls the string and drops the silver coins on the palm of his hand. The second guard takes them into his hands, and examines them closely. 

“That’s three hundred Ether. Those two are hundreds, and those two are fifties. You can buy a lot with that, sir.” After pointing to the specific coins, the undead hands Denki the coins. 

“Thank you.” Denki looks back at the city behind him. “And where could I… spend them?”

After readjusting his weapon, he points right in front of him. “Leave through the main gate, and you’ll be at Imperius street. There are many stalls and restaurants not only there, but all over the city as well. I am sure you will find something to your liking, sir.” Denki can feel a smile in his voice as the skeleton delivers the final invitation. 

“I can suggest a few places to visit if you wish to hear me, Sakurai Denki.” 

All three turn towards the entry to the fortress from where the sound came. In a steady pace, a uniform-clad figure approaches them, arms slightly open in courteous invitation. The tall, waxed leather boots step quietly as the newcomer approaches. He stands a head lower than Denki, but his formal black cap extends farther above. The black outfit is perfectly clean and straight, the three polished medals on the right side of his chest placed in perfect symmetry to each other. As every undead, he wore gloves, but in contrast to the rest, his were thin and lined with golden thread at the sides and edges. Behind his formal trousers, with straight purple lines sewn on the outsides of his sleeves, waved a thin black cloak, further adding to his uniform’s impressive cut. On his left wrist a copper-clad Electro Vision shined, tied to his skeleton with a leather strap.

The guards straighten out, and place their hands across their chests with a loud thud, before putting them back along their body. “Glory to the Great One!”

As the black-clad undead stands next to Denki, he too places his arm over his chest. “Glory to the Great One. At ease, soldiers.”

The guards relax, and he turns towards Denki, extending his right arm. 

“I believe we have not met yet. My name is Felix Waltz, General Artilleris of The Legion. It is an honor to at last meet you in person.” Denki shakes his hand carefully and bows in reflex.

“It is my honor, general.”

“Oh, I believe it is all on my side.” He tilts his skull downwards. “Shall we take a stroll?”

Denki’s eyes focus on his irises, and he nods. 

Thank you for reading!

[contentloadingandstuff]

Necro AU: Character Profile - Sakurai Denki

Image was generated using the BING image generator.

Title: Legionnaire Assault Grandmaster 

Affiliation: The Legion

Name: Sakurai Denki

Race: Human/Partially Undead

Sex: Male

Age: 27

Origin: Inazuman

Height: 192 cm

Short description: An assassin serving The Great One, Sakurai Denki is the first mortal to live through a soul transplant into an artificial vessel. He is the only living member of The Legion. 

Long description: Sakurai Denki is extremely young when compared to his peers. The majority of agents have hundreds of years of experience under their belt, with the number of completed jobs counted in thousands, while the mortal has served just eight. What makes him unique, however, is his exceptional Necro resistance, granting him the ability to withstand and use a Necro Vision. This came at a cost of his life, taken from him within Fatui reformatories. His soul was transplanted into a new vessel by the Fly Lord himself. After undergoing torturous training in the Timeless Void under the watchful eyes of Aldehan Adler and Qablu, Bearer of War, Sakurai Denki dedicated his life to aiding the Great One's cause. Due to his great skill and somewhat mortal nature, he is one of the most dangerous aces in Beleth's sleeve. 

Visual appearance: Tall with fairly broad shoulders and muscular body. Gray eyes, fair skin, grayish-brown short hair. Bags can be frequently seen under his eyes. Dressed in light, partial black armor, with a mix of dark leather and fabric underneath. Thin black cloak able to cover his entire frame, extending into a deep hood. Plain white mask with only the eye holes. Long leather gloves, tall leather boots, an equipment belt with various pouches and containers around his hip. A sheathed knife on the outside of his left thigh. 

Personality: Very reserved with a lack of patience or desire for social interaction with everyone but his closest familiars. A son figure for Aldehan Adler, and a pupil of The Watcher. Quiet, introverted, prefers to work and live alone. A tendency for excessive brutality, mainly against the Fatui. Cold and calculated. His mask of emotionlessness and professionalism hides a deep, unresolved trauma. A devout believer in The Necro Archon who strives to live by his four virtues - Order, Sacrifice, Devotion and Loyalty.

Model: Tall Male 

Rarity: ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Vision: Necro

Weapon: Sword 

Constellation: Maledicta Vitae

Normal Attack: Blade of the Legion 

Performs up to 6 consecutive strikes, dealing PHYS damage. 

Charged Attack: Consumes stamina to perform consecutive slashes. The final attack deals increased damage. 

Plunge Attack: Strikes down from above, dealing AOE damage. 

Elemental Skill: Shadowstep

Shadowstep has 3 stacks. 

Hold: Consuming two stacks of Shadowstep, Denki summons a Shadow. Whenever Denki performs a Normal Attack, Charged Attack or Plunging Attack, the shadow mimics it, dealing Necro DMG. The Shadow follows Denki for 15.0 seconds, disappearing after the duration ends. 

Press: Denki summons a Dark Reflection at his current location, using up one stack of Shadowstep.  

A Dark Reflection remains static, launching long range attacks at nearby opponents for 10.0 seconds, after which it vanishes. 

When looking directly at a Dark Reflection, press RMB to teleport to take its spot. After teleporting to a Dark Reflection it vanishes. 

Teleporting has no cooldown. 

Both Shadows' and Dark Reflections' DMG scales off of Denki's ATK. 

Stack CD: 7.5 seconds

Shadow duration: 15.0 seconds 

Dark Reflection duration: 10.0 seconds

Voiceover:

Summon Shadow: "Darkness, aid me."

Summon Shadow: "Into the gloom." 

Summon Shadow: "Strike with me."

Place Dark Reflection: "Pay attention."

Place Dark Reflection: "Watch your back."

Place Dark Reflection: "We are many."

Teleport to Dark Reflection: "Die!" 

Teleport to Dark Reflection: "Suffer!" 

Teleport to Dark Reflection: "Bleed!" 

Elemental Burst: Wrath of the Samanērtu

Denki draws The Samanērtu Blade and strikes forward, dealing AoE Necro DMG. Afterwards, Denki wields The Samanērtu in combat. His Normal, Plunging and Charged attacks are infused with Necro and cannot be overridden. 

After the duration ends, Sakurai Denki loses 30% of his MAX HP, but recovers 5 Energy for every Shadow and Dark Reflection present on field. 

Attacks during the duration of Wrath of the Samanērtu are considered Elemental Burst DMG. 

Energy Cost: 80  

Animation: Denki reaches for the sheathed shattered katana piece underneath his cloak, draws it, and drags his closed right hand over the blade. His pupils glow purple if he is unmasked. 

Voiceover:

“You cannot run.”

“This is your end.”

“In His name.”

Passive I: Void Strider

After teleporting to a Dark Reflection, instead of vanishing, it explodes dealing AoE Necro DMG.

Passive II: Searing Hate

Denki gains a 20% CRIT RATE bonus against Fatui opponents.

Passive III: Dead or Alive

When Denki is in the team while a Bounty Target is defeated, an additional 25% is gained upon claiming the respective reward.

Constellation I: No Witnesses

Whenever Denki teleports to a Dark Reflection, the Dark Reflection switches places with Denki and explodes in his previous location.

Constellation II:  All-Consuming Gloom

Killing an enemy while a Shadow is active replenishes one stack of Shadowstep. This effect can occur once within 12.0 seconds. 

Constellation III: By A Thousand Cuts

Increases the level of Shadowstep by 3. 

Constellation IV: Undying Endurance

For 5.0 seconds after teleporting to a Dark Reflection, dashing costs 50% less Stamina.

Constellation V: Never Forgive, Never Forget

Increases the level of Wrath of the Samanērtu by 3.

Constellation VI: High Value Target

Every hit on the same enemy within 3.0 seconds of the previous one grants Denki 2.5% Necro DMG bonus, stacking up to 30%. The bonus is lost when another opponent is hit, or when no attack is registered within the time limit. 

Thanks for reading!

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Genshin Impact Necro AU: Sakurai Denki - Personality, Appearence, Quirks

Made in Picrew, because I couldn't draw to save my life. I'm working on it as well, but the internet will have to do for now.

A/N: I know, I know, this is the worst possible way of describing a fictional character - an info dump. But integrating all of this into a reasonable story with coherent plot and the proper developement would take a very long time (exactly 3.9 days of constant writing. Average pace is 4 sentences per minute, average sentence is 10 words, average chapter is 5000 words long, 45 chapters to do all the content justice [in my opinion, could be less]). So while work happens on the proper fics, have this.

Physical appearance

Height: 192 cm/ ~6.3 ft

Weight: ~90kg

Age: 23 (vessel age appearance) 21 (actual age)

Eye colour: Originally green. His new body, however, mirrors the state of his soul, also in the eyes. The iris is normally light grey in colour, and switches depending on his emotions. It is dark purple when he is angry, yellow during Necro core malfunctions, blue when he is in mental pain/discomfort and everything switches back to green when he is happy.

Hair colour: Brown. It used to be a healthy shade, but after the soul transplant it got brighter (stress-related graying). He wears it short.

Skin colour/race: White, Caucasian.

Physique: Muscular, but not beefy. Attractive by all means (Sunqu didn't make the vessel to leave Denki maidenless, now did he? Everything he creates is held up to a high standard). The original Denki was slender and of average height.

Unique features: Scars, scars, scars. His old body may have been abandoned, but some injuries have been ingrained in his very soul - and that reflects on his vessel. Over time traces of his past reappeared, now as fully healed white scars. Every single one of them carries an especially painful memory. The one on his right eye, for example. It was the second to be removed, leaving him completely blind. Even though he can see again, the trauma remained. Other scars include:

around the neck,

long and symmetrical on his arms,

a few long gashes on his back,

a flurry of small, thin and irregular cuts on his forearms,

a half-moon scar on his stomach,

around his upper chest,

on the inside of the thighs.

Tattoos, piercings and jewelry: None.

Personality

Original Denki was fun to be around, all in all. Outgoing, outspoken, friendly. He had a lot ideas for fun activities, and often dragged his few friends along. Despite that he was slightly introverted, enjoying alone time a little more. He loved reading and drawing landscapes of his home - Narukami Island. Denki liked to train swordfighting, but prefered doing things in a way of avoiding direct conflict and bloodshed.

The new Denki is very different. He's cold, unfeeling even. Denki is the only mortal The Watcher respects. He is reliable and direct, working with others with no greater issues.

The problem, however, starts to become visible when he finally relaxes, the doors close, the curtain drops. Denki is awkward in social situations, remaining silent and somewhat absent, always standing on the sidelines, not speaking unless spoken to. He sometimes comes off as dull, other times mean and harsh. A lot of the subtleties of conversation, like flirting and teasing, just makes him confused and angry - why won't they just tell me what they want? Mood swings are a problem. Even thought the Necro core stabilises his soul greatly, the spirit still is an unpredictable thing. Best case he gets grumpy or sad, worst case - an entire psychotic episode occurs. The major malfunctions happen rarely, but small short-circuits are common. He is snappy, but his frustrations never result in injury to bystanders. His jokes are confusing and untactful (the undead he got used to have a very different concept of what's funny). Once more or less a pacifist, Denki got more violent. He no longer strays from killing or harming others, but still dislikes the job he was forced into. The targets of his cruelty are almost exclusively the Fatui, armed or unarmed, innocent or guilty. The mangled, rotting corpses are a tell-tale sign of his presence.

After he reunited and got together romantically with Kuki Shinobu, his best friend from his childhood, Denki started slowly improving. His mood always lightens up when she is around. He talks more, is overall happier and more upbeat. He got used to talking to living people again. His sense of humour remains dark, but lightened up enough to not attract worried glances from bystanders. Teasing stopped annoying him - he even started to bother Shinobu on a daily basis (mainly about their height difference, which is about 30 cm apart). Breakdowns still occur, but they got less violent over time, thanks to his soul finally healing. Denki started slowly coming back to parts of his old self, but got more mature and masculine. His intense protectiveness over Shinobu is also to be noted.

Issues

Body image - Ever since his soul got moved, he felt that his body didn't belong to him any more. All of the nooks and crannies he was used to were gone, replaced with artificial flesh. It is attractive, beautiful and perfect from the outside, but it's not his. It feels like a golden cage for his soul. At first, Denki couldn't even blink correctly. It took what felt like years to get the new flesh puppet into the rhythm of being alive. All of the natural functions, like breathing, walking, sleeping or speaking had to be done with outside help at first. Only after a long time was he ready to fully use it as intended. Every day felt awful. The vessel was cumbersome and clumsy, and it hurt. Everything hurt. Speaking, moving around, breathing. It felt just as a too tight costume. But he got used to it over time. He has to maintain it regularly, just in case something is wrong. That made him enjoy taking long, thorough baths. Yet he doesn't feel the same type of worry at seeing it injured, like one would with their own body. It is unimportant to him. It was, actually, before Shinobu got into a relationship with him. She adored it's beauty, helping him clean off the blood and grime on many occasions. She hated seeing it hurt, and urged him to be careful. If Shinobu values his vessel, then why should he not? It won't be that bad. Probably.

Allignment - Every time he cleans the blood off of his hands, he can't help but question himself. Is he good, or evil? How come his fingers are so gentle and full of love on Shinobu's, but so hateful inside of his opponents' eye sockets? The beings that saved him are objectively evil - they torture, kill, raid and destroy, but to achieve a goal of world order and create a paradise at the command of the Creator. Do the ends justify the means? They showed kindness and understanding, offered him a chance to live again, but forced him into a job of murder all the same. Is killing the guilty really a good deed? Is giving payback to those who hurt him in an equally cruel way a crime, or a justifiable action? And finally - after so much wrong-doing, this much cruelty and hate - does he even deserve to be hers?

Identity - If Denki's soul remained unchanged, he would have ended himself or gone off-the-rails long ago. Because of this, Sunqu had to piece together whatever was left of him, and fill the gaps with fragments of others' life essence. His memories are still there, but the mood swings certainly beg the question: is Denki really one person? When he looks into his grey eyes in the mirror, does he see the old Denki, the one who smiled and laughed without a care? Is it the weak, pathetic, scared and whimpery shell of a human Beleth rescued? Or the new Master Denki - the same man on whose hands is the blood of hundreds? Which one gets up, which one eats, which one cuddles with Shinobu to avoid nightmares? Which one does she actually love? If he is, indeed, one individual, that brings forth even more concern.

Trauma - It's not like the memories suddenly vanished from his mind. The seven years of agony left permanent imprints in his mind, resulting in many quirks and habits reflecting that. Examples include:

Constant nightmares, up to a point where he has to sleep in short, three hour bursts to get any rest,

Brief 'jamming', resulting in zoning out or randomly snapping at anyone around,

Occassional flinching at sudden movements during relaxed moments,

Dislike towards salty and dry foods,

Dislike towards turpid soups - because who knows what's really inside,

Picking apart purchased meals with cutlery, subconsiously looking for needles, razors, broken glass or similiar "surprises",

Eating quickly, as if someone was about to take his food away,

Absolutely despising being restrained in any way,

Reluctancy to undress or show is bare body in other ways,

Scratching at his neck and forearms whenever he is uncomfortable or sad,

Disrespecting most authority figures, excluding the Legion,

Unwillingness to submit in any way, be it major, minor, or even as just a joke,

Paranoia; always standing in a way to observe the most people around at once,

Desperation not to get sick and become dependant on others, even if for a day only,

Tensing up at sudden physical contact...

... and the list goes on and on. Most of the stress is made more bearable with his girlfriend around. She is an expert at calming him down and comforting him whenever he needs it. With the smaller woman in his arms, every pain seems to dull - even the nightmares subside.

(Feedback is always welcome! :>)

Thanks for reading!

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So there is a fairly high chance I won't describe every character I imagined for this AU. Seeing as this is the case, I decided to make this post, containing names, basic gameplay info and some general lore about the OCs. Everything here is not set in stone, and is subject to change.

Slave of The Wasp: Sakurai Denki [5*, Sword, Necro, Tall Male] - a native of Inazuma and the last survivor of the Sakurai family. His traumatic experiences gave him exceptional Necro resistance, resulting in him being the only living Necro vision bearer. One of the most prominent and skilled assassins in Beleth's army.

Right Hand of Qablu: Aldehan Adler [5*, Sword, Necro, Tall Undead] - a general from Mondstadt who fell in a fratricidal battle between his army and the royal guard of the Lawrence clan. He is one of the most powerful liches and necromancers, having led his skeletons to victory countless times.

Eternal Pursuer of Unholy Knowledge: The Watcher [4*, Catalyst, Cryo, Tall Undead] - a mysterious liche, guarding the library of Sunqu, the Standard Bearer of Plague. He spends his time in the Timeless Void, researching whatever piques his interest. The Watcher doesn't value human life, housing a deep distain for it.

Master Artician of Destruction: Felix Waltz [4*, Spear, Geo, Medium Undead] - a genious, but unappreciated Fontaine inventor. His research of explosives used by Ruin Guards turned him into an outlaw, leading up to his death. He gained recognition as the Artillery Marshall of Beleth's army. His cannons and mortars wreak havoc amongst opponents of the Liche Lord.

Bearer of Plague: Sunqu [5*, Catalyst, Necro/Dendro, Tall Undead] - the Herald of Plague. One of the Standard Bearers. He is the oldest and wisest of them, his knowledge rivaling that of the Dendro Archon herself. He grew bored of his collegues, and so Sunqu traverses Teyvat personally, tormenting everyone and everything for his own amusement.

Bearer of War: Qablu - the mighty Herald of War.

Bearer of Hunger: Ubuttu - the insectoid Herald of Hunger.

Bearer of Fear: Sibtu - the unimaginable Herald of Fear.

Bearer of Sadness: Sapal Libbi - the wailing Herald of Sadness.

Bearer of Hatered: Zerutu - the twisted Herald of Hate.

Bearer of Pain: Adaru - the merciless Herald of Pain.

Favored Son of Death: Beleth (Arfill) - an independant part of Father Death, he has been tasked with appreciating Teyvat in His name. After the destruction of his pet nation, Khaenri'ah, he pursued one goal, by any means nessecary - to establish the order his senior imagined for the world.

The Spirit of Lisha - the legendary Queen of Spirits and a champion of Sapal Libbi. Her name was lost to time, and as such, she took on the one of her home realm.

Mother Life: Ti - one of the two Creators. Born of life's desire to become something greater, she ignited the first spark of creation. Her wish for existance to develop in its own way, she withdrew from interacting with the world.

Father Death: Ush - one of the two Creators. He is the opposite of Ti, being the void filling the world. His creation of Necro forced life to develop further, giving birth to the world and its many wonders. Unable to accept Ti's idleness, he commanded Beleth to establish his own design in Teyvat.

Thanks for reading!