From Corpse to Crown: Reborn as a Mortician in Another World-Chapter 27: The Waking Begins

Lucian fell asleep with the Grimoire's words running through his mind:

Echo registered. Memory resonance spreading. Loop instability: increasing.

+

The next day, the rain in Staesis didn't fall. It hovered, like the dark gray clouds were waiting for permission. Lucian walked through the square, his cane tapping faintly against the cracked stone.

Like the townscorpses, the even the air felt like it was bracing itself for impact.

A street sweeper dropped his broom, his glazed eyes twitched toward Lucian. His lips—stitched shut to preserve civic silence—moved just enough to whisper: ƒree𝑤ebnσvel.com

"I remember sunlight..."

Despite himself, Lucian smiled. Across the plaza, four more workers staggered. One began to hum, tuneless and soft—until a nearby figure raised a shovel and struck him across the shoulder. Another one force-fed him a potion, and then he resumed working. No words, no scolding. Just enforcing the loop. Lucian felt the anger in his heart before he could control himself.

His pulse pounded and the cane pulsed in his grip.

Anxiously, Rosa watched from the carriage window, her lips drawn tight. What pale color was left on her cheeks had begun to fade again, fingers trembling like a puppet on fraying string.

The driver hopped down from his bench. "Rosa—"

"I'm fine," she lied. "But...something is pressing down. Like the town is learning to breathe for the first time."

The being inside of her thrashed, as if each tap of the cane was a personal attack. She almost wished they could return to Candlemere to see Michael.

I could ask for some time in solitary confinement and then you could thrash as you wanted. No one would hear us.

The hateful little spirit retaliated by scratching at one of the walls of her cold heart, and Rosa coughed.

"You won't get me that easily," she muttered under her breath, spitting out bile instead of blood.

+

In the square, Lucian sensed the town's atmosphere shifted. It was no longer the coldly perfect town it once was. He saw a truly brittle town, one that would snap if it were forced to bend a little longer.

Without hesitating, Lucian walked toward the bell tower.

Silently, Rosa slipped out of the carriage and ran after him.

+

The doors groaned as Lucian shoved them open. Wax-crusted candles lined the walls and the cracked clapper gleamed faintly in the gloom. He moved with purpose, setting the Grimoire before him.

His fingers had bled as he pushed the old wooden doors—though as they hit the page, Lucian's blood turned into ritual ink.

"They wanted silence..." Lucian murmured. "But that isn't peace."

After writing his wish, the Grimoire vibrated. Pages started flipping furiously, reacting to the build-up of magic power. Behind him, Rosa's voice cracked.

"Lucian, wait—!"

He turned.

Gethra stood at the threshold. Her coat dripped with water, and her glasses caught the candlelight like a knife's edge.

"Before you do anything permanent," she said calmly. "There's someone else you need to meet."

Unseen by all of them, the Caretaker breathed a sigh of relief. There was no need to ring the bell and awaken the being sleeping in the lake.

Not yet.

In the sky above, a folded piece of parchment written 'to the Queen' disintegrated into ash—a canceled emergency call.

+

After his ritual was interrupted a second time, Lucian wanted to scream. As they traveled inside the annex, he bit his tongue and continued to observe.

His heart still beat wildly, and Rosa was nearly out of time. Unless he sacrificed another memory, her decay would accelerate.

Lucian felt like a ticking time bomb, and the signs were growing even more apparent: as he followed Gethra through rows of decaying books, his every step echoed with magical vibrations.

She was unfazed, however. "You can fuss all you want, Mortician Bowcott, but this place is under my protection."

Gethra led them past a boarded stairwell he hadn't noticed before. She whispered an incantation to remove the planks and lifted the iron latch with a grunt.

As she did so, Lucian thought he saw the faint shimmer of wings on her back. The scent of myrrh and old parchment rose from beneath the trap door.

Rosa hesitated at the threshold and clutched her apron. Lucian forgot his indignation and offered her a look—both parts apology and reassurance.

She followed.

The descent was steep and spiraled deep into the bedrock. Lanterns flickered as they passed, lighting a vast chamber under the annex library.

It wasn't a tomb—it was more like a sanctum. Empty coffins lined one half of the wall. Others held bodies that hummed faintly.

"They buried the truth here." Gethra explained. "And those who refused to forget."

Lucian spotted figures seated at long stone benches. A few raised their eyes—dull, but conscious.

They broke the loop, and survived the awakening.

At the far end, beside a carved pillar depicting a wasp-waisted goddess, stood a man with royal posture and hollowed cheeks. He wore a crown of rust and bones, and his eyes shone like cast-iron bronze.

"Mortician Bowcott," he said, his voice like cracked vellum. "You've made a lot of noise."

Lucian didn't bow, and stepped forward, slow and wary. "Who are you?"

"Alexander, the Crown Prince."

He tilted his head in confusion. "Royalty isn't exempt from the Blessed Ritual?"

"Death comes for us all," Alexander said. "In my case, my brother thought to accelerate the meeting. I was the Crown Prince. Now I'm just another echo."

He turned toward the mural behind him. It depicted a figure with a familiar walking cane. The name below it had been scratched out, but the resemblance to Lucian was undeniable.

"Another portrait of Alaric?" Lucian breathed.

"No," The prince said. "But please, sit. You may want to for what comes next."

+

He dusted off a stone bench, sat down, and felt the chill through his coat. Prince Alexander, whose name had been stricken from all official texts, stood with one hand resting on a racked reliquary.

"I remember when this place held prayers. Now...only regrets."

Rosa sat beside Lucian, quieter than usual.

Gethra poured a bitter tea and placed it before them in silence.

The prince continued. "Alaric Montegeau... was the last mortician before you. He wasn't just a servant of death. He was its editor."