From Corpse to Crown: Reborn as a Mortician in Another World-Chapter 103: For the Good of All

"We use crystallized threadlight. Similar to a funeral urn, but instead of ashes, we have memories. It’s better this way. Without any graves to mourn, we can focus on what’s good for everyone."

Lucian’s fingers tensed slightly. He nodded politely, but the Grimoire in his satchel gave a faint warning flutter. Mayor Prescott’s words sounded sweet, but not quite right either.

He stared out the window, hands clasped behind his back. "When we carefully manage loss, it doesn’t spread. Our dome makes sure no hauntings or emotions leak through. Austmark continues, functional as ever."

Lucian raised an eyebrow. "Even if people are grieving?"

The mayor’s smile returned. "Grief is permitted, of course. In private. But catharsis is a luxury, Mr. Mortician. One we learned to live without. You’ll find we run efficiently here—for the good of all."

+

They left the Mayor’s office feeling a little off-kilter. They were welcome to stay at the inn, and wander around town as long as they wanted. It was like he wasn’t concerned about their magical abilities at all.

"For the good of all? Huh." Lucian muttered. Every citizen they passed wore a fixed and polite smile.

He saw a baker hand out fresh loaves to a line of silent townsfolk, her smile brittle at the edges.

A seamstress stitched at a perfect hemline with trembling fingers.

They heard a teacher reciting history facts to a classroom of blank-faced children—but Lucian caught the way her eyes drifted toward the window, as if remembering a world beyond it.

He stopped in front of a man hauling crates of preserved vegetables. The man’s shoulders were broad, strong. But he carried the crates like they weighed far more than they should.

Lucian turned to Alice. "Do you feel it too?"

She nodded. "Every job is done perfectly. But no one seems to want to be doing it."

+

A small flower shop caught Alice’s eye because it was so quiet inside. It smelled like honeysuckle and lavender, but no one was humming. No music was playing either. Just the gentle snip of clippers and the sound of plants being watered.

The florist was a middle-aged woman with frizzed black curls and long sleeves that hid her hands. She greeted Alice with a polite smile.

"These roses are beautiful," Alice said, finger brushing lightly on one petal.

"Do you grow them yourself?"

"Of course," the woman said. "Floral-related tasks are mine."

Her voice sounded so tired, like she couldn’t wait to leave.

"They’re so elegant. You must love your work."

The florist’s clippers paused mid-snip.

"Not...exactly. I used to be a singer. Opera. Trained in Austmark’s conservatory before the dome."

Alice blinked. "Then why..."

The florist smiled, but it her eyes remained tired and sad. "Because...this is for the good of all. Not everyone has the luxury of chasing their dreams, young one."

She turned and went back to trimming, the clippers clicking like tiny guillotines.

Alice stood there for a long moment, holding a flower that no longer smelled like spring.

+

"They all said the same thing," Lucian said. "For the good of all."

Lucian and Alice were walking back from the town square, a paper bag of freshly baked bread in Alice’s arms, when they turned a corner and heard raised voices.

They paused behind the corner of a brick building, uncertain.

"You were seen near the cliff again," a clipped and cold voice rang out. "Alone. Dancing."

"I was just stretching," a young woman’s voice answered—tired, defensive.

"You were twirling, Miela. Twirling is not stretching. That is performance. Expression. You know how dangerous it is to indulge that kind of selfishness."

Lucian peeked carefully.

The speaker was a middle-aged man in Austmark’s dull grey uniform—clearly some form of town monitor. His expression was stern, almost dispassionately so.

The girl looked no older than twenty. She stood rigid with her hands clenched in front of her. Her eyes shone with tears, but her smile never faded from her lips.

"I...I didn’t mean to upset anybody," she said quietly. "it’s...I-it’s just...my m-mother used to watch me dance, before the dome. I miss her."

The middle-aged man stepped closer and said dispassionately, "We all miss things. I miss being a dog walker. But we do what we must for the good of all. This town works because no one is selfish. No one dreams out loud."

"I didn’t—"

"You did. And you know the rules. Consider this a warning. You’ll report to the textiles quarter tomorrow. No more time near the cliffs."

Lucian’s hands curled into fists. The girl bowed her head and murmured, "Yes, sir."

As the official walked away, Alice whispered, "She didn’t even do anything. She just...missed her mother."

Lucian stared after the man’s back. "In Austmark, even longing is rationed."

They stepped out into the open as the girl wiped her face and straightened her spine. She saw them and offered a too-bright smile.

"You’re the mortician," she said.

Lucian nodded. "And you’re Miela."

She blinked in surprise, then laughed—a quick, musical thing that faded fast. "Was. I guess I’m just ’Weaver #42’ now."

"Can I ask what you used to dance?" Alice asked gently.

Miela hesitated. Then, in a whisper that trembled like wings, she answered: "Ballet. My mother used to call me her swan."

Lucian bowed his head. "If you ever want someone to remember that, come find me."

+

That night, Lucian lay beneath unfamiliar sheets in the best room of the inn. The silence nearly threatened to crush him like a hydraulic press.

He turned to face the window and saw the dome, reflecting the full moon.

Why did they all give up their dreams? For the good of all? I doubt everyone is so selfless.

That night, he tossed and turned until he finally fell asleep.

+

Lucian dreamt he was back in Vel Quen. The Loom hovered in the air before him, glowing softly.

But this time, he wasn’t alone.

One by one, people approached him—not as frozen souls, but as grieving ones. A soldier held out a sword broken in half. A mother cradled a blanket that smelled like her child. A painter smeared with ash held out a canvas burned black.

Each of them whispered: "Please, hold this for me."

Lucian reached forward, and the items transformed in his hands—not into thread, but into gold. Tiny fragments of memory. He began to weave, slowly, instinctively.

He folded the grief into thread and gave it back.

When he returned it, their eyes filled with something new.

It wasn’t joy or pain.

Just relief.

Like someone had finally protected their crushed dreams.

When he woke, the Grimoire pulsed faintly at his side.

It didn’t demand to be opened, but it was just waiting.

For what, he didn’t know.