“Shut up!” I shout.

I’m not the only one here, I’m just the only one still alive.

“Gods wept, it was bad enough figuring out my own shit with Silent Howl playing puppet master in the background, I don’t need you fucks chiming in, too!”

The fact that I have to --. Yeah, no.

“The fact that I have to talk out loud again just to hear myself think, is not cool,” I say to the aether.

Being stored away like forgotten clothing is apparently more dignified than being lumped into a pit, and there are tons of voices in agreement. The cheering was literally them encouraging me to drain the leftover souls from their bodies so that their regrets and resentments don’t take over their bodies and shame them in death. Good to know?

There’s a weird pinging sound that I know is in my head, so why am I swiping at the air around my ears in annoyance?

“See what you’re doing? People will think I’m crazy!” I snap before glaring blankly as I get a chorus of ‘crazi-er’. “Tch!”

By the time I’m done moving corpses I’m honestly wondering if I should apologize to the priest or curse him out more violently. There’s probably more common people in my bank than in the village. I let them make their suggestions, speculate about what I am, where they are, just let them talk it out while sending out a quick send to let the priest know that I have to rest and I don’t know when I’ll wake up again.

His response is concerning. He can hear people talking, like I’m in a crowded room. When several of the voices get excited, insisting that I contact the priest again and try to hand them over, I transfer to the lake and curl up around the condenser. The fact that some of them would like to clarify that they’re not trying to possess the priest, they were hoping for blessings to move on isn’t reassuring.

Am I possessed? I snort and wiggle around to make myself more comfortable. Yeah, I’m possessed. Like alarmingly possessed. Dozens of spirits just hanging out and chatting and seeping through my thoughts possessed.

I want a bed... I get up, casually recreating my hill home off to the side of the cook pots and not directly over the murder pit before remembering that I haven’t scrubbed up yet. It might not bother me, but I kinda don’t want to hop into bed fresh after handling dozens of corpses while I’m possessed. So bath it is.

A large basin and smaller buckets, I could create some soap out of everything I have available, but it’d be better if I learned how to make it first. Knowing something well enough cuts down on the costs of creating it, like my skill has a lazy asshole tax or convenience fee attached to it.

Several voices rise together in a brain pulping roar, and I sit down to put my head between my knees with the hopes that they realize if they take me out it’s not freeing them. Visualizing a truly demonic undead me on a rampage gets most of them to STFU, some of them even taking great pains to wrangle some of the rowdier voices, and I get a few moments of insistent whispering to try to get my thoughts back in order. When I go to check my logs there’s so much more spam. Just local and in the last hour. It’s like they were hesitant at first, but now, with the knowledge that I’m actually not a proper psychopath, they feel comfortable just speaking their thoughts.

While I’m wondering how much it’d take to become a proper psycho, some old auntie nags me. I’m literally being criticized by some old lady who is now scandalized by the thought that I called her old. She intends to get me marriage ready through shame and self-suppression, making me a proper wife.

“I’m sterile, non-hunan, and I have a dick,” I count out on my fingers. Somehow this is even more scandalous than calling her old.

Good to know.

Back to my logs and I read that there’s a ton of people who had soap on them in case they had emergency trips. There’s no guarantee that they’ll be able to find an inn or even a village with a proper tub, so some soap is a necessity. One person even hopes that I don’t find their perfumed soap. There’s a gasp and immediate shouting. Accusations of sorcery, -- I’m a formerly demon, then celestial, god only knows what now, bug that manipulates essence. Think that counts as sorcery. -- manipulation, and violating someone’s privacy and property, -- I’ll violate their corpse when I find it. Split it like a hog and cook them rotisserie style on a spit, see how they like that! Ooh, spit skewered eel... -- and continue scrubbing down.

“Hmm?” I realize it’s quiet, I’m using some weird floral soap while washing myself at the bucket and basin, and I don’t remember doing any of this. Was it while I was reading? “That’d be it, wouldn’t it? Some dead asshole trying to hoard soap and then pissing me off? Yeah, I’d go for his stuff first every time.”

I sigh and scrub down, a weird indication bar telling me how far done I am. I’m going to assume someone cleaned a lot to unlock that function. It takes me a few tries before I learn that I need to wash my hair and brush my teeth to 100% the “basic” clean. I quickly move on from thinking about levels of cleanliness, just wanting to go to bed, and reflexively snuff out all of the candles in the house.

Pretty sure I don’t have candles, but I guess they’re common enough. I think I might rather have the glow stones, but that might take more effort to maintain. Then again I’d waste a lot going through and remaking candles. I make light orbs when I wake up.

I groan, a reflexive action, as I climb into a clean bed. This feels amazing, -- I sniff the sheets, -- smells amazing, and is amazing. Fed, cleaned, and in a real bed. And I got my house back. Things aren’t going so badly.

I wake up with citronella making itself part of my very being and many voices complaining. Remembering that checking my bank status showed how well my soul was faring last time I over-saturated with, like 3 souls, I brace myself before shifting my thoughts to see what kind of mutated vision awaits me.

Focusing shows my hunan form reclining in richly embroidered robes, the jewellery less chunky, more elegant, and a whole lot more agreeable than the gaudy mess I first saw. My form is reclined on a pillow strewn raised platform inside a room with jars, tapestries, chests, and a sand table with colored sands in piles of varying heights. I’m not sure if that’s the new indicator for my Will and essences, or just a decoration, but I’m becoming more perturbed that I can hear the voices as if they’re right next to me and not idle communications.

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I turn and see that there’s a door behind me that leads to what appears to be a very busy market.

“No...” I stumble forward before racing up to the entrance to look out on a large stone square where there are indeed nearly 100 people just going about their business. “What the actual fuck?”

I’m afraid to leave the temple, to leave me, ‘cause I honestly don’t know what will happen. Will I lose myself? Will it allow someone else to take over my body? What are the implications of these, these people wandering free in my soul, not being absorbed?

A woman in a form fitting robe with her hair coiffed and oiled, a flower fascinator pinned in her braids, storms up the steps, into my sanctuary, and flicks her wrist, flapping the gauzy square in her hands at me. She sucks her teeth, grabs my arm, then physically drags me out like I’m the one acting strangely

“We’re sorting everything out, since there’s nothing better to do,” she says way too friendly, the honorifics she uses makes me sound like a troublesome niece, and I don’t even know how I know that. “Some are saying that if we help you progress our spirits can pass on faster, and it does ease our time here. Come come! Let me show you what we’ve done so far.”

I get led on a tour of my soul, what once was a dark corner with a greedy and rich figure grinning hungrily, a threat to myself, and now I’m wandering around a spacious compound with a massive central square and several large manors around the perimeter.

There’s a tailor’s shop, which I’m told was once quite profitable, but I’ve been lax in maintaining my silk production and distribution. I still have silk out there, it’s still being sold and bargained over, and I am still getting a kickback, but with supply down people have been a bit pickier on how they sell it, to whom, and how much.

“We can set that up after you’re a bit clearer,” she says, laughing in that fake polite way that lets me know that apparently I’m not doing so well. Whether her “Oh, shit, this is bad!” laugh is for my mind, body, or soul, I might never know until I check my logs.

She swats my arm with her little square, acting like I just said something “naughty”, and I want to know why the fuck she’s so flirty. She tucks herself against my arm tightly, getting a good grip and casting me a sly look before continuing to drag me around the buildings.

There’s an armory, but I’m not allowed in there. They’ve stored away the better items for redistribution while leaving the rest as sacrifices to be stored in a facility out of sight. Anything in that warehouse is up for grabs as far as Devour is concerned, and they thought it was nice to make sure there was no confusion. No one wants me to eat any more valuable treasures.

I’m trying to wrap my mind around the fact that I’m inside my inner self inside my void, and there might be more layers that I don’t have the power to have full control over. And I’ve got an inner village of people whose souls I’ve consumed. And they’re not okay with it, so much as it happened now they’re just dealing.

There’s a clothing store, which confuses the hells out of me, but when I point to the tailor’s I’m told there’s a difference between “textiles and tailoring” like it’s some well-known phrase I’ve been disregarding. I’m gonna guess she means there’s a difference between silk sheets and spools of thread and actual clothing. She boops me on the nose and the tour continues.

Pretty sure I didn’t say that out loud... She laughs, out loud, and says there’s no need for words, in my head. I can’t help but feel more and more violated by this insinuation of intimacy. Yes, our souls are bared, no, I’m not comfy with this.

She laughs, smirking slyly while leading me to an inn where there are people – souls, -- eating at tables, and people going upstairs or coming from upstairs. She explains that they don’t need sleep so much as they’re meditating or cultivating to keep their souls intact. Only the weaker ones who are ready to move on or incapable of holding themselves together by remaining useful get eaten.

Did I set this up or is this a Silent Howl thing? I give the question to the aether and in return I get the knowledge that this is a natural progression, something that should have been done ages ago, but I’d attempted it instinctively in my void instead of developing it in myself.

“Very backwards, but how were you to know?” Aunty says, pouting and gently pinching my cheek.

When I look at her in disbelief she just laughs lightly, hooks her arm around mine, and leads me to a table that clears as we move towards it, the previous inhabitants fucking off pretty quickly. She snaps her fingers, -- rude, -- and waves her hand in the air before resting her elbow on the table, her chin barely resting on the knuckles of her upraised hand, and I wonder why she’s set up but avoiding the support.

Someone I’d guess worked in the inn, -- no, dammit. This is inside my soul! I own/am this! Ack?! -- comes over bearing what I’m guessing is an accounts book. Aunty beams proudly before opening it and flipping through the pages.

“You’ve Devoured quite a few good craftsman and a fair share of good cultivators,” she informs me, pulling the book out of reach with a frown when I reach for it. “We’ll go over everything once you’re more stable,” she admonishes me, turning her head in disappointment. “You go out, eat, wash up. When you come back we’ll discuss your next steps. There’s much you do not know.”

I open my eyes, climbing to my feet shakily. Did I just accidentally into training? I head out, wash up, then move to my main sitting area, dismissing the kitchen section. I do a double-take when I realize that I had made a small kitchen, not my massive warehouse which had encompassed the jars outside and set over the corpse pit. When did I change it? A window appears in the wall and I’m looking out at the jars, wondering how far they’ve gone before a notification informs me that they’re fine, they’ve been replaced, and the new jars are almost finished.

I wave my arms at the table as I sit in my main room, a feast of split dragon-headed eel, a salad, jellied berries and fresh bread. With a thought I know that I’m grilling some fish whole, mostly to be milled later, but a plate appears with one, still scaled, skin, head, and fins intact. More pots, more stoves, rice cooking, a light paddock replanted, and I’m staring at a very tasty spread.

“I know how to cook,” I murmur hesitantly, a reminder. “But I don’t do this.”

These souls aren’t too bad, I nod begrudgingly as I eat a bit of eel and rice, reaching for a tea service to pour a hot cup of black tea. I make involuntary sounds of appreciation as I wash down my food, refilling the cup with the knowledge that I’m going to continue having hot tea and cooked food at the ready at all times. I wonder what Foods I have the ingredients to cook, a window opening with things I’ve eaten and what appear to be suggestions for things I should try.

I would like to have broth, and I have the fish. I don’t mind sharing my food as scraps for the farm, but a suggestion that I find more aquatic plants, as food for me and the fish, doesn’t go unnoticed. So many good suggestions. Someone suggests that I try to produce milk, as in start lactating, so that I can make creams and cheeses, and the memory of lactating -- not mine, dear gods, the nauseating pregnancy memories that a bunch of women, some who were actively pregnant, contribute are beyond nauseating, -- shuts that suggestion down.

My breast ache and feel heavy, I swear the eel I ate is regenerating in my guts, -- fucker’s a fighter! -- and organs I don’t have start aching with the need for release. When my back starts winding tighter and tighter I scream, head outside, take on my true form, and just run laps around the lake with the knowledge that I’ll never have to deal with anything more than sympathy sensations.