Chapter 3 - Bad First Impressions
Stupid! Stupid, stupid, stupid…
Dominic berated himself after what he had done, the ugly tears never stopping their flow while he stared at the bleeding boy in front of him.
He had cut a child’s arm off.
He had mangled someone for life.
The sudden realization threatened to be enough to make him topple under the weight of his actions, but he had to do something first!
Bleeding and screaming, the boy flailed as thick blood flowed from the stump that had become his shoulder. The one that held his now detached wing bled less, but the cut had been ugly and amateurish. Dominic had nicked the boy’s leg during his efforts.
Still – there had to be something. This was Hell. This was a game. A game in Hell, right? There was – there was life magic! The System had told Dominic about it. He just…
…He just had to cast a spell he didn’t know about.
Fear was replaced by despair as it dawned on Dominic how badly he had fucked up. All that age and he still acted on impulse at times. Stupid!
The boy screamed once more. Loud enough to make Dominic’s ears feel pain – and that worked enough to jerk him away from the self-loathing. He had to do something…
A Potion. A Healing Potion. Those existed, right? They must exist. There was magic after all, it only made sense that some alchemist or witch could make them.
So where would he find it? Dominic’s eyes darted back to the massacre. The soldiers would have them. The older ones. Those at the forefront.
Maybe.
Praying for the boy to just hold on, Dominic limped faster than he had ever done before, his blood pumping loudly in his ears even as his back sprained and calves revolted against every motion. His body begged for rest.
But there was none here. Dominic’s brain knew that it was his heart that was in charge right now. He would not stop until he fixed things. Or lost it all.
So he scavenged, hands darting into the simple belts most of the pink demons wore, using them to tie the long robe that covered their bodies. He ignored the pretty embroideries in some of them, his teary eyes incapable of focusing on the supernatural light of the colorful thread. The clothes were simple in design, but Dominic could distinguish good craftsmanship even now, with his senses muddled by the smell of rot and despair clawing at his heart.
Some of the bodies that he searched had other distinguishable detail – shoes made of different types of leather and cloth, sandals that seemed to call for the wind, and boots unmarred by mud and pulped, decaying flesh.
He turned his head away, frantic movements to his search. Those at the back held nothing. No matter how hard Dominic searched, they had nothing.
Nothing but other things. A clipped claw, tied to a belt. A bracelet of sickly gray vines, carefully made. An adornment to their horns.
Things that made them people. Objects that housed their life stories. Oh, how he wished to stop and hear their tales, to respect their deaths and passage, to honor their attempt at war.
It was almost a distant cry now.
Hear us and know that we tried.
But Dominic never stopped, and he hated himself for it. Because in his attempt to be good and merciful, he had only brought more misery to a child that had already lost everything.
So he pushed onwards, ignoring the fact these once were living and breathing people. Treating them as bodies, Dominic sacked like a vulture, searching for a wish he kept on clutching with trembling fingers, while his heart wasted away with the effort.
And yet, nothing. Not a single vile, ointment, or even flask of water. These demons had come scarcely prepared to fight only once, and either die or survive.
This – this had all the signs of a last attempt. And Dominic forced himself to feel disgust towards the hopelessness in the air, instead of joining their grief. He couldn’t wallow in it right now, no matter how unhealthy it could be to ignore his emotions.
There would be a time to deal with them later. After he saved the life of the boy he had helped to kill.
His eyes roamed the puddles of liquefied flesh, his cane moving bones away in a frenzy as he searched for anything that could help. And he saw something.
Not a vial. Not an ointment. Not a spell.
A stick. One of those he had seen the pink demons try to wave at the dragon before hiding. Dominic knew not what they did, but he could tell they were special somehow. Because they were unblemished.
Even among the puddles, these pieces of wood lay clean on the floor. Some were driven into the ground like stakes, others simply repelled whatever gore lay around them.
And they had something in them. Words, etched in a foreign language or alphabet that distinguished from the ones Dominic had found on the bricks. These… these were enchantments.
Spell Wands. Many with [Fire Bolt], or [Smouldering Ash], or any other fire-related name. Dominic ignored them. There had to be something… something useful.
The force attacking the dragon couldn’t possibly have been made of only warriors. There were even children among them, so who is to say that there was no [Healer]?
Propelled by his fledgling hope, Dominic searched with a single focus, ignoring the most offensive-sounding names in the wands and continuing to search for something helpful.
“Please Lord Almighty, let me redeem myself. Please!”
He prayed while searching, words escaping his mouth in a desperate mumble as more and more bodies were moved and more spells were read. Until he found it.
Oh, Dominic found it. Point stuck to the ground, was a wand no different than the others, put there in what he would call almost divine providence. And on its length, there were two words.
[Cure Wounds].
Dominic grabbed the wand so quickly and so tightly in his hands as he returned, limping over the squelching ground, that he never noticed the silence.
***
Kurian was dying.
He was certain of it. The [Plague Mage] had failed to kill him, but not before setting one of his underlings to finish the job.
Kurian had hoped, among the delirious pain he had felt as the disease peeled the skin off his bones, that the light brown creature would cease its suffering. He had begged like never before for it to, please, please be merciful.
And it had understood. It had nodded at him, a gesture Kuriam had only seen performed by the Incubi or the Sulphurborne. Imps didn’t nod, it wasn’t in their culture.
But Kurian could recognize it. And he knew that an up-and-down motion would mean yes. His father had taught him that. And the creature had nodded.
And it was a lie.
It had tortured him with his own axe, cutting off his arm – his wing – and leaving Kurian to bleed close to the remnants of his people. He could still smell the battlefield, the stench of rot and blood and feces so pungent in the air he half wished the smoke had rotted his nose alongside his eye.
And more… the underlying smell of disease. Of the touch of the [Plague Mage].
Here, thrashing and screaming, Kurian cursed it all. Cursed the Python and his Cult. Cursed his father for leaving him behind. Cursed the brown thing for making him bleed.
Cursed the Sun for not breaking its chain and how worthless it was to be its children.
So he screamed. Screamed, because he knew he had lost it all. Screamed because even if he returned, he would still lose it all.
And when he could no longer see – one eye blinded by the sick smoke and the other blinded by the blood loss – in those seconds where his mind faltered and his ears were stuffed with cotton and he bled and bled and bled, Kurian’s rage faltered.
And he gave himself the right to weep.
***
Dominic returned and found the only outcome he dearly wished not to happen.
Hope in the shape of a wand in one hand, balance in the other with his cane, the elder fell to his knees at the sight of the boy. The demon. The child.
He lay there, in a pool of his own blood, silent and serene – no more did he scream and thrash with pain. Now, all that was left was the trail of dark tears from his eyes and the fading color of his cheeks, turning from pink to gray.
The wand had never felt so heavy. A burden as mighty as the sky, pushed down by the force of his disgrace and disappointment. Dominic felt half inclined to break the thing out of pure rage.
Out of sheer self-loathing.
And yet – he didn’t. Because something shone through the despair. One of those connections that can only be made when hitting absolute rock bottom. The mind’s last struggle to not accept an outcome.
A memory. A small clue written in one of the Paths.
Anxious, Dominic asked the System to show him again, and there it was. Hope.
Path of The Ghost
Die (1/1)
Scare a Living Being (0/3)
Possess an Object (0/1)
Possess a Sentient Creature (0/1)
Possess an Object. A capability the System hinted at as being his for simply becoming a Ghost. And if he could possess an object… then what was stopping him from possessing a body?
Was a corpse nothing more than the inanimate remains of someone? Was it not but a life without a spark?
And if so, couldn’t he give it back?
Dominic’s hands shook at the prospect. A half-formed idea he would have to enact upon or carry the burden of the boy’s death on his shoulders. And he didn’t want that.
His job was to save people like him. Those talents in the wrong place, unable to fend for themselves.
Mind resolute, the elder approached – and before he could think twice – pressed a hand onto the boy’s chest. At first, nothing happened, only the contact of his skin against the soft cloth of the demon’s tunic.
But Dominic took politeness very seriously, so he asked for help. To enact this plan. To do the impossible.
And reality gave its permission.
His old hand, solid and riddled with liver spots, suddenly became entirely incorporeal – breaking through the boy’s skin and diving into his ribcage. First, it was a hand, then his entire arm, and as suddenly as it had begun, Dominic’s perspective changed.
He was in. Possessing the demon boy’s corpse like some spiritual parasite. But the effort was enough, because with this sudden condition, came an awareness Dominic had never tasted before.
A sudden understanding of his new condition, much like a baby learned how to breathe almost instinctively. As a [Ghost], he could manipulate the object he possessed to a great degree and detail. Nothing more than a normal person could theoretically do, but there lies the catch, doesn’t it? Theory enables so much.
Slowly, the elder dove into the boy’s corpse and began to do what he thought was necessary to bring him back to life. The hearts – there were two of them – started to pump with his attempts at a massage. The blood was forcefully dragged through the veins and arteries. Synapses jerked with sudden electricity. The lungs inflated as the body inhaled and exhaled new air.
It took much energy from Dominic to perform such miracles – his mind dividing itself to try and process the different bodily processes simultaneously.
He even tried to block the blood from leaving the wounds entirely, but the process required a focus much better spent on trying to resurrect the boy’s other organs.
And Dominic needed only a moment. A second to restart the biological machine and allow it to run by itself just for long enough to cast the spell.
It was a process that lasted much shorter than he had experienced. A few seconds of intense focus on multiple fronts felt like an eternity to the elderly man. But it was done.
Leaving the body in a hurry, Dominic immediately pointed the wand to the boy’s chest and prayed – prayed to the Lord Almighty that he would allow this miracle.
The words came in a half-choked sob.
“[Cure Wounds].”
And suddenly, there was light.
***
Never allow anyone to say that magic wasn’t impressive. Only self-entitled fools would ever describe what Dominic saw with his own eyes as anything but the most amazing thing to exist.
Oh, it had its downsides. Most definitely.
For example, when the green light pulsed from the Magic Wand, called forth by Dominic’s incantation, it shone without regard. Its effect fell upon only one, but its light? That was not so specific.
The glow fell upon Dominic’s skin and instead of the minty relief most would feel under the touch of the spell’s light, all there was was pain. Incredible and piercing as his body smoked under the spell’s inconsequential side effects.
Vulnerability. He had disregarded the true meaning of the word – and now the world had made him taste his hurry with a pound of flesh as the price.
It lasted very shortly at least, taking no more than a breath to finish, though it left him gasping for breath and his hand aching as if he had shoved it inside a vat of hot oil. But the wand had remained in place, never wavering.
The elder had felt too afraid that if he lowered it, the spell would fail. And he didn’t want to test if there was a second charge of [Cure Wounds] inside it.
Still, the spell – for all intents and purposes – had worked perfectly. Approaching slowly, Dominic saw the wound of both stumps close perfectly, a layer of pink – and black – flesh and muscle making it look like the limbs never existed in the first place.
Even the cut on the boy’s leg had closed, leaving not even a scar. It was so incredibly miraculous, Dominic couldn’t help but approach and see closer. He didn’t dare to touch the boy, but he ensured the small demon’s chest moved before finally relaxing and allowing the exhaustion to settle.
And on the red grass, Dominic gave in to his body’s wishes.
All there was left, as he fell into the darkness of sleep, was one final blue box.
Congratulations! You have obtained a new Class!
Death Doctor
You have defied the natural order and brought life back using nothing but your own spectral hands. Now rejoice, for you shall be tasked with saving those at the final edge. Or push them beyond it.
Skills: [Tool: Spectral Scalpel], [Undying Heart], [A Final Conversation].
Grimoire Spells: [Spare the Dying], [False Life].
***
Dominic woke to the sound of fear. That kind of choked scream you gave when you didn’t want to startle a predator. And with that, he knew the boy was awake.
He was about to smile, to give reassurance to the demon that he was safe and protected. Until he heard the hiss. A long forked tongue producing the shrill sound and making Dominic’s ears hurt.
It lasted for as long as the demon boy had breath in his lungs, and when it stopped, the boy hacked cough after cough – raising his single hand as a barrier against him.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
At first, the elder didn’t understand. Until he remembered the “alien at your doorstep” conundrum. Well, that and the fact he had just cut off the boy’s arm and wing.
So the reaction was more than deserved.
“It’s… it’s okay, son! You’re safe! I promise.”
He tried to remedy the situation, praying that his Title would be enough to make the message understandable. The child understood, and his hatred soared.
“Monster! Killer! [Whore]’s Son!”
…Okay. Dominic could tell that this wasn’t working. So with the mind of someone who worked closely with other people for his entire life, the senior businessman changed tactics. Getting up – and feeling the awful, awful pain that came with the simple motion – Dominic slowly increased the distance from the boy by taking a few steps back.
He allowed the boy to scurry back far enough to hit his back on the dark trunk of one of the trees – fighting hard not to cry as Dominic watched the boy try to get up and fail as the small demon tried to move an arm that wasn’t there.
The boy sweated hard as the effort sent pain down the stubs of his limbs. The spell worked well enough to knit the flesh and replenish the blood, but the area was so tender every move made it feel on fire.
Dominic felt a tear roll down his weary face – breaking through the facade he had tried to put on – and cleaned it before speaking.
“I’m… sorry about your arm. The… disease would kill you like the others if I hadn’t done it.”
The elder attempted to keep his tone flat, but the sniff he gave in the middle of the sentence made it all come out as a barely understandable phrase.
The response first came as a shout…
“LIAR! [CULTIST]! MY FATHER WILL… My father will…”
…then a whimper. It broke Dominic’s heart to hear the boy’s choking words, mostly because this proved his previous suspicion with no shadow of a doubt. Whoever the child was, he was nothing more than that.
A child.
The boy cried ugly dark tears, his snout leaking transparent mucus as he opened his mouth full of – oddly white – teeth and tusks… and wept.
That soul-clenching cry only a child could give when their heart broke and despair became all they knew. The tears of a soul forever scarred by events out of their control.
Dominic waited. No more tears fell from his eyes – for this was not his moment, and he refused to engage in the child’s suffering when he would lose nothing but a few nights of sleep. So the elder committed the scene to his mind.
A sight Dominic desperately wished he had died without seeing.
It took minutes of weeping for the boy’s cries to turn into a soft sniffing, his single hand putting double the effort to both clean his own tears and snot.
“I know it is difficult, but are you well? Do you feel any pain? I… had never used the spell before.”
The boy seemed to absorb the words slowly, narrowing his eyes at Dominic before giving him a short hiss. Then, noticing his confusion, promptly whispered.
“...Fine.”
Dominic sighed, relieved.
“Good, good. Do you… do you want me to try again? The spell?”
The boy looked at Dominic and hissed, twice and quickly. The elder made sure not to move.
“It won’t work… the wand has only one charge.”
“Really?”
An eyebrow raised high, the elder stared at the carved wood on his hand. The boy saw his doubt and scoffed, which was the best response Dominic could have expected.
“If you doubt it, you can try.”
The words felt like a dare, but he chose to show some trust in the boy – that and he could still remember the pain of the spell’s light. Throwing the wand away, Dominic felt the topic was safe enough to engage in.
“How did you know it had only one charge?”
The boy’s eyes – one milky white and the other black as night – stared at Dominic and widened. Just a fraction. He licked his dry lips before answering.
“It’s made of wood. It can’t hold too much mana. What was it? [Cure Wounds]?”
“Yes. That’s what it said at least.”
“Then that’s it. [Cure Wounds] is too strong for the wood.”
Dominic looked at the boy and considered, for a moment, what to ask. This topic was getting particularly close to a business conversation, and though they could be fruitful at times, he couldn’t tell if it was the best topic in this situation.
But if it made the boy talk…
“Why not change the wood then? Something capable of holding more… spells?”
The little demon had the bravery of looking at him as if he were dumb. Dominic tried hard not to laugh at the common children’s expression so clear on the utterly alien face.
The elder’s silence must have convinced the boy this wasn’t a trick, because he answered after a long moment of staring at Dominic.
“Manawood? No one would waste it with a [Cure Wounds] spell. Too weak.”
Ah, the chemist dilemma then. Dominic almost nodded at the problem, though he had only seen it a few times. And always in industries working with precious, rare, or expensive elements. A useful product, but of limited use due to its container – and yet, to change the container was to make the useful product unworthy, so it had to be replaced with something new. Something more expensive.
Nevertheless, business conundrums aside, silence settled between them once more, so Dominic took a risk.
“I see… How do you know so much about it?”
The boy froze as his expression turned to one of utter heartbreak and loss. A small part of Dominic felt amazed at how easy it had been to properly read the boy’s face – even with its alien features – but that part was soon squashed by the need to formulate a contingency plan.
Because that look? Dominic could tell the risk had turned into loss even before the boy’s mouth opened.
“My… dad. He was a [Wand Maker].”
Okay. Dominic performed the quickest of readings. It seemed to be a sad topic, but not so shocking as to be extremely recent. The father was most certainly away in some form, maybe dead. But that face… No, he wasn’t among the slain soldiers.
So that left a question. One that should be answered quickly or the old businessman would lose his opportunity.
Engage or retreat?
Engage or retreat?
Engage or retreat?
Engage.
“Was he good at making wands, then?”
The demon’s bare brows furrowed and his snout contorted for a second. Dominic could tell it was indignation wafting off the boy’s stance. A middling outcome all things considered.
Worse than a scoff. Better than silence.
“Good? Father was one of the best! He even made one from Leviathan’s Scales once. The Voice even gave him a better… Class… Oh.”
The sudden silence made Dominic worry, for the boy’s eyes were as distant as he had never seen before. Listening to something the elder could not see. The time it took him to choose his next words, however, was enough for the boy to return from his daze.
And on his face was even more defeat.
“Is… everything alright?”
Dominic took a step forward and saw that the boy’s eyes were shiny. Teary. The white one transformed into a gray as profound as the sky above their heads, covered in the dark tear’s the demon seemed to produce. The boy sniffed. Twice.
He bravely tried to swallow the pain and loss, but it traveled up his esophagus like bile, and the boy gave a small gasp in the end. One followed by shaky breaths.
The demon only managed to move two fingers toward Dominic before retreating into a ball and crying once more.
Kurian, Son of Nifestu, has shared information with you.
Will you accept it?
Y/N
The blue screen shone in Dominic’s retina, appearing at a corner of his sight like a small prompt. The words told him much, including what apparently was the boy’s and his father’s names, but he chose to think about it later. For now, the elder only pressed “Y” and saw two new boxes emerge – now of the usual size.
The first was as red as blood, but not the color Dominic saw in the System’s logs. No, this one was deeper – more personal. There was none of the mechanical distance clear in the System’s bright colors.
Your Class [Apprentice Artisan] has been removed.
That… that seemed concerning. If Dominic had understood correctly, the boy’s – Kurian’s – System had taken something from him. Without his permission. And the idea that it could very well remove its gifts sent shivers down the elder’s spine.
Dominic wondered, for a moment, what would happen if he lost something like his Title. Would he have to engage the native creatures of the Tutorial with only the most savage of gestures? Would his body language even be understood by the creatures around him, like Kurian’s kind? Or that dragon?
Fear blossomed for a moment, and only the fact there was a second box to look at made Dominic stand strong against the System’s uncaring prompts and changes.
Congratulations! You have obtained a new Class!
Broken Survivor
You have endured disaster and lost part of yourself for it. The scars you carry shall remain with you until you overcome them.
Skills: [Unseen Presence], [Heavy Blow], [Memory: The Imps of Kiringar]
Grimoire Spells: [Griever’s Burden]
Oh. Oh. Dominic stared at the cruel, cruel words written in the blue box. He understood now why Kurian had deflated so much. The System had not only taken his old Class. It had given him a new one, as well.
And from the way it seemed, it was a forever reminder of what had happened today.
Dominic didn’t know how to react. Sadistic prompts aside, the elder didn’t have the background to understand how relevant a… Class was. He could tell it seemed to give people something, at least – though that felt like a very superficial understanding.
Still, when one had no more ideas on how to solve a situation, kindness proved itself to be the best solution. Slowly, ever so slowly, Dominic limped towards the boy.
***
Kurian didn’t know what to do. His father’s last gift was taken by the Voice due to his failure. A new loss. One that he should have expected when he was the only one left.
The young Imp knew it happened at times. The last soldier, the only survivor of a tribe, the youngest son of a dead family. [Survivor] Classes were cruel.
And now… now he had one. No longer would he be an [Apprentice Artisan], whittling away at branches in his attempts to follow his father’s footsteps. It was not meant to be anymore.
The Voice had spoken, and now he would forever carry the burden of those killed by the [Plague Mage]. It was… oddly fitting for someone as cowardly as he was. Kurian had deserted, fled certain death, and now the Voice was punishing him for it.
Tears fell from his eyes, but not of sadness. These came from a deeper place. Disappointment, disgrace, his own stupidity for thinking he could have changed the battle’s outcome, his cowardice. It all came out, carried by that black liquid.
The boy only stopped rocking back and forth when he felt the digits on his head.
Five. A foreign number for Imps who had only four of them in each hand. Smooth, if perhaps wrinkly, fingers touched his bare scalp – in an attempt of a soothing gesture. It was awful. It was terrible. It was childish. It was all Kurian needed.
He opened up. The Imp wouldn’t remember the moment properly, but Kurian inclined his head to allow better access to his head.
The brown creature seemed to understand his permission, because the pats became more comforting -- kinder. That small edge of fear the touch still had vanished completely at the Imp’s vulnerability.
And in perfect silence, Kurian lost himself once more, until his eyes had no more tears left to give.
***
Dominic had comforted few children during his life. With no siblings to grant him nephews, and no offspring of his own, the only interactions he had were with his friends’ kids.
But they rarely counted. Many he had seen only once. The idea of interacting too much with them always felt awkward – he had never learned how to properly do it and was always too scared of harming them to test his paternal instincts.
It was a blessing then, that of all of his friend’s children, there was at least one he truly doted on.
A once bold young girl, calling him uncle and demanding he gave her piggy rides when he was already in his forties. Jules had always been… assertive, but as a child, she had been a small hurricane of commands and stubbornness.
A princess in the eyes of everyone.
Dominic couldn’t tell, by the life of him, why he ended up treating her as a real niece. Part of it, perhaps, came from the fact he had been a good friend of her mother for years before her birth – Melissa had her first and only daughter while already bordering her forties. And his friend had been so happy and relieved.
Unlike him, Melissa had always dreamed of having one. It was a topic that only came when the two of them were alone – and bottles of wine were already empty – but it always appeared. Her guilt, for being unable to give Robert a child even if he constantly told her it didn’t matter. Her desire to hold a baby and love them unconditionally.
He had always listened, in silence, to her vents. They were an intimate thing – personal even – but Dominic heard them echo every time he looked at Jules.
So he doted on her. Well, first she had demanded he dis so after discovering he returned from a trip abroad without a single gift for her – but as soon as Dominic gave the little gremlin something, he suddenly became “Uncle Dom”.
And it stayed like that forever. Now… he wondered, while patting the Kurian’s bald head as he gave in to tears and grief, how Jules was doing.
She’d be at her firm when the first box came. Maybe… maybe she was safe, and he didn’t have to worry about her. But Dominic did. Because Melissa and Robert were no longer here to do so… and he was Uncle Dom.
If not by blood, then by heart.
Time passed as Dominic reminisced, and besides a moment where his finger’s stopped and Kurian silently extended his neck for more pats like an overgrown cat, there was little to do but think.
And he did so because after seeing the prompt for Kiruan’s new class, something was needling him greatly. He felt that the words at the beginning were familiar, as if Dominic had seen them in a dream… or a daze.
So he asked the System, politely, to show him his Status. And there it was. Under his Primary Class’s space.
Welcome to The Universal System.
Dominic Jones, Son of Theodor Jones.
May you develop successfully.
Status
Name
Dominic Emilio Jones
Titles
Tutorial Participant
Race
Ghost
Type
Undead
Primary Class
[Death Doctor] - Level 1
Secondary Class
LOCKED
Tertiary Class
LOCKED
Skills
[Tool: Spectral Scalpel], [Undying Heart], [A Final Conversation]
Grimoire
[Spare the Dying], [False Life]
Paths
Path of The Elder (0/3)
Path of The Manager (0/5)
Path of The Novice (2/3)
Path of The Ghost (3/4)
Path of The Tutorial (0/4)
[Death Doctor]. A new Class that Dominic had not chosen. It was there, and it had given him things. Changed him.
And these were real changes. He could, somehow, feel them inside him – echoing on the Universal System’s blue prompts. Or, perhaps, the reverse relation.
Nevertheless, the places on his Status that had been empty, now were filled with gifts from his Class.
And they responded to his probing.
[Tool: Spectral Scalpel]
A Death Doctor’s trusted assistant. Beware its edge, for it can cut to the soul.
[Undying Heart]
It’s not yet time to give up. Your fight shall continue.
[A Final Conversation]
One last opportunity for the dying to be heard.
Dominic sighed. It really was his fault for expecting any kind of direct explanation from the System. The wording gave him some ideas, though they were so fantastic he feared they were impossible.
After all, what could One last opportunity for the dying to be heard really mean? Would he have to make a séance? Make an Ouija Board? Utter the name of the Skill and pierce the veil between life and death only to gossip?
The first one was the easiest to understand. A scalpel was something he knew after all. The second one though? [Undying Heart] seemed like a Skill to do what he had done to Kurian without actually possessing them, but that part about the fight…
All of these details made him curious, because what were the Skills’ limits? The System didn’t even indicate one, but he doubted they were nonexistent. No, he was certain they had a limit, which meant it was the job of the one with the Skills to learn them.
The Grimoire was next, and what was there was equally mysterious.
[Spare the Dying]
Hold on for a moment longer.
[False Life]
Phantasmagorical vigor is vigor all the same.
There it was. Dominic’s… Spells, maybe. That’s what you put in a Grimoire, right? Would they have a cost in… Magical Energy then?
Lord Almighty, this is complicated. The elder felt like trying to catch up with something that was leagues ahead of him. Something similar to when he tried to write an email for the first time.
And Dominic just knew that younger people would have an easier time than him. They always had an easier time learning new technology, even if, perhaps, they were not so flexible with sudden life changes. Few could change the picture as he did.
Still, new information was always nice, even if enigmatic – and with the Grimoire done, there was only one thing left. Dominic’s eyes darted closer to the top of the Status screen and thought about what he wanted to see.
And he met an explanation larger than usual.
Death Doctor
You have defied the natural order and brought life back using nothing but your own spectral hands. Now rejoice, for you shall be tasked with saving those at the final edge – or push them beyond it.
Skills: [Tool: Spiritual Scalpel], [Undying Heart], [A Final Conversation].
Grimoire Spells: [Spare the Dying], [False Life].
Ah, more things he could work with. It was good to know that the Skills and Spells did come from his new Class and not some… sudden change to his body. He still had to reflect on the fact he possessed poor Kurian, but that would have to wait until he had less pressing issues.
For now, though, the small text Dominic read at least explained – if in a quite basic way – what he had done to become a [Death Doctor]. Resurrected someone with his own ghostly hands.
Does that mean Kurian was truly dead? Or would doing supernatural CPR on someone cause them to gain the Class? Maybe it was exclusive to his Type because he was an Undead? Or his Affinity for Death as a Ghost? Dominic couldn’t tell and the way he clicked his tongue showed the slight annoyance with his ignorance..
The System worked through mysterious ways it seemed, and even if it gave more information on someone’s capabilities, the number of things it withheld turned everything pretty much back to square one.
Back to him being a creature with a meager understanding of the universe
And almost as if he had been waiting for Dominic to finish his reading, Kurian stirred.
Sniffing, the boy turned to him, eyes glossy as Dominic continued to pet him, and the first question made the elder almost laugh.
“What… what are you?”
“Hm? I could very well ask the same thing, of course. I’m… I’m… human.”
The elder felt it was better to stick with a small lie. Perhaps the fact he was an actual Ghost was better kept secret as of now.
“Oh. Riu-man… Never heard of it.”
The word felt oddly elongated on the boy’s forked tongue, but Dominic only nodded in response, a small smile now on his face.
“I believe you wouldn’t have heard of us. We come from – very far.”
Kurian hissed once, short and snappy, before settling back again. Dominic however, had to ask something. Because one of Kurian’s new skills, was a name he had only heard in the most esoteric of conversations.
“You… are an Imp, aren’t you Kurian? I’m sorry, I’ve never met one of your kind.”
“...Never? But those at the village always said we were… everywhere… Oh no!”
Despain laced the Kurian’s face once more as he tried to get up from the floor, with only mild success – his missing arm and wing made every movement wobbly and the lack of a counterbalance made him favor one side too much.
Dominic, meanwhile, watched the boy’s sudden desperate motions with surprise.
“What? What is it, Kurian?”
“They don’t know. They don’t know!”
And the little Imp tried to walk forward, but his balance was too compromised now. Pushing his body beyond what he probably should, Dominic helped the boy to his feet once more – giving Kurian his hand to hold for balance.
He itched to ask for clarification from the boy, but as they limped away from the bodies, Kurian’s single functional eye going from left to right in explosive anxiety, the elder remembered what he had seen.
Small details that during his search for something capable of healing Kurian, Dominic had forced his mind to ignore or he would crumple under the weight of what it meant.
Gifts. Decorations. In one way or another, proof that the Imps that died under the dragon’s attacks had people to return to.
And none of them knew their loved ones were dead.