There was a stare-off.
A silence deep and thick, like oil pooling in the air between them.
It didn't last ten seconds before Merek decided to use the skill—Soul Bind.
The name alone implied control. A bind. A shackle.
Did it mean he could chain her to his will? Command her? Contain her?
What kind of bind, exactly?
The question brushed across his mind like a falling leaf—weightless, fleeting—before instinct kicked in and he activated the skill with a thought.
A scroll appeared.
Not just any scroll, but one etched on old parchment, brittle and yellowed with time, its surface shimmering faintly in the soullight that clung to Yuki. It floated toward her, drawn like iron to a magnet.
'You!'
Merek's heart faltered. It almost missed a beat as the result of the skill didn't match his expectations.
Yuki stared at the parchment curiously, her head tilting ever so slightly. Then, with a sudden flick of movement, her gaze locked onto him.
"Why are you nervous?" she asked, calm but cold. "I can't kill you even if I want to."
Merek blinked.
Well… that was comforting. Sort of.
He raised an eyebrow, but her logic made sense—at least enough to hold onto in this sea of chaos.
Transmigration. Apocalypse. A blue screen. Now a ghost.
A ghost. Or maybe a soul.
Or whatever she identified as.
She moved.
One moment, she hovered mid-air. The next, she was there.
Right in front of him.
He didn't know if she teleported or simply moved that fast, but it was enough to make every instinct in his body scream to run.
But he didn't.
Every hair on his body stood on end.
The air between them grew colder. Denser.
Her presence wasn't violent—but it was overwhelming, like standing too close to a storm.
Now that she was near, her features came into sharp focus.
She had a sword-forged face—not in scars, but in definition.
Sharp eyebrows like slanted blades. High cheekbones. Lips neither soft nor cruel, but firm with purpose.
And her eyes…
Slanted, catlike, and hauntingly clear.
But deep within them—past the piercing scrutiny, past the ghostly gleam—was a fragile flicker of hope.
Hope like the morning rays breaking through a sky long shrouded in darkness.
She lifted the scroll, her spectral fingers surprisingly steady.
The parchment unrolled with an unseen wind and blocked Merek's view of her face.
Then her voice came, slightly muffled by the scroll but striking all the same.
"Can you truly give me a body?"
It was not a question of curiosity.
It was a cry.
A plea.
A 500-year-old yearning condensed into seven fragile words.
Merek's throat tightened.
He looked at the scroll, scanning its contents.
His eyes widened.
According to the soulbound contract, he—a man who'd only just been flung into this nightmare of a world—could create a body of steel for her.
Yuki.
A soul who had wandered the earth for half a millennium.
She had been a Sword Maiden.
A woman who had lived and died in pursuit of the absolute pinnacle of the blade.
She'd fallen short… and now believed this was her second chance.
Her divine opportunity to reach what death had denied her.
Merek tilted his head, eyes flicking back to her.
She looked more human up close, yet impossibly distant—like a dream given shape.
And yet… he had no idea what to do.
None.
How the hell was he supposed to reanimate a five-century-old soul inside a suit of armor?
He didn't even have an ingot. Not one bar of steel, let alone the skill to shape it.
His mind spun. His hands clenched, then unclenched.
He was lost—utterly lost.
Then—he remembered.
The screen.
That floating blue interface had shown up before.
It had given him "Soul Vision." allowing him to see this soul.
And "Soul Bind" had summoned this contract.
Surely the other skills had uses.
Something—anything—that could help him figure this out.
Because one thing was certain:
He did not want to find out how a sword-obsessed spirit would react if he told her no.
With a thought, the blue screen shimmered back into existence.
It hovered silently before Merek's eyes, an ethereal glow casting pale light across the dusty apartment.
As if reading his confusion, it displayed what he needed to know:
Soul Vision: [Grants the ability to see and communicate with souls. Passive.]
Soul Bind: [Grants the ability to bind souls through contracts, thus making them your subjects. Active.]
Weaving: [Allows you to weave any form of metal or materials acquired from the afterlife. The limits of this skill are unknown. Active.]
Veilwalk: [Grants access to the afterlife—the land of the dead—where items can be purchased. Each journey costs one Essence Core. Active.]
Verdict: [Assesses the quality of your crafted creations, revealing their rank, traits, and more. Active.]
Then came the last line, etched in grim black font that pulsed with faint red veins:
Title: Death's Victor
[You are a man who has defied death and breathed life into that which should not live. You now walk among the living and the dead. Your energy pool has changed. It is now "Mire"—essence of the dead. It empowers you, but to the living… you may seem a threat.]
Merek stared at the text, expression unreadable. His eyes slowly rose to meet Yuki's.
A soul in limbo.
And him?
A crafter without a weapon, bound to a class with no offensive skills, marked as an enemy of the living, and now expected to walk freely into the afterlife.
Why was everything about the dead?
He sighed. Then sighed again, louder this time.
With firm steps, he walked to the corner of the room and grabbed a wooden chair.
Heavy. Thick-legged. Solid enough to break bone.
This would be his weapon.
One week's worth of memory from the original Merek stirred at the back of his mind—cowardly scraps of survival instinct, most of which involved hiding, running, or staying deathly still while zombies groaned past the door.
But… he had killed a few. Enough to know hesitation was fatal.
"I need to kill a zombie before I can make your new shell."
His voice was quiet, almost uncertain—but steady.
He turned and walked toward the exit. Along the way, his eyes caught the glint of cold metal.
The brass revolver lay on the floor near the couch.
He picked it up, slid it inside his waistband, and pressed it against his hip with his belt. Not the safest way to carry it, but at least it wouldn't fall off easily.
Then, he stood before the door.
Breathing in.
And out.
Over and over.
Each breath was shakier than the last.
Finally, he exhaled one last time, held the knob, and opened the door.
The hallway outside was bright yet quiet. But the air smelled faintly of rot.
This was a five-story apartment complex. Merek was on the third floor.
His gaze drifted to the next door down the hall.
Apartment 308.
He knew who lived there.
A kind old woman who used to bring cookies before the apocalypse. She lived with her son's family. Laughter used to echo from that unit.
Until the infection.
Until she turned.
Until she bit her own son and his children.
It was Uncle Jorik who locked them in.
Merek blinked.
'Uncle Jorik…'
The name echoed like a whisper in his mind. The one man who had protected him and his brother after the apocalypse began. The only man who'd known the truth about his brother's class.
For some reason he vanished a day before the gang came for his brother. Something wrong gnawed at Merek.
Could it be…?