From Corpse to Crown: Reborn as a Mortician in Another World-Chapter 32: Terms of Service

"Pack your things, quickly." Lucian uttered the words as soon as he and Alice arrived. The driver had been sitting near the window and nodded. "Room grew real cold after that big bell rung, sir."

He knew they were on a timeline.

Since the bell tolled, the rooms had changed. The gold-leaf trim seemed gaudy and the quiet was no longer peaceful—it pressed down on his chest like a large bear cat.

The light filtered through the stained glass, but it was no longer beautiful. Instead, it felt brittle.

Watchful, even.

When he returned to the borrowed room, he saw the letter on the table and avoided reading it at all cost. Now that his things were all packed, the only thing left to do was read it.

It lay folded on the table, unsealed and heavy in its wake.

The Crown recognizes your new autonomous status, Mortician. As such, you are no longer required to dwell in the civic quarters. You may rest in places beyond the Court's influence, unless you are summoned or commit high treason.

The Queen's seal was at the bottom, and the last sentence was underlined in black ink.

No "thank you." No reprimand. Just... removal.

The Grimoire pulsed at his side.

A new title etched itself into its spine as he closed the door to the King's Quarters for the last time:

[UNAFFILIATED: Echo-Class Disruptor]

He didn't need to ask what it meant.

+

The walk to the mausoleum was long, but not lonely.

Staesis had changed. The streets weren't empty, but they weren't uniform anymore either. Citizens no longer moved in unison. Some stared at the sky like they were waiting for it to fall. Others cried, laughed, or simply sat on the curb and stared at their own hands.

Death had returned.

But so had confusion.

A man sweeping leaves looked up as Lucian passed. "I remember my daughter now," he said with a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "She had a mole right here. You wouldn't know her, but I remember."

Lucian nodded, said nothing, and walked on.

By the time he reached the annex, the candlelight had grown erratic. The bell tower no longer loomed — it observed.

The underground mausoleum was cooler now. Alive in a way that made Lucian's skin ache.

The loop-free citizens moved through the space like real people. One woman sat knitting near the coffins. Another dragged a broom across the floor humming an out-of-tune hymn. A third was trying to get vines to grow in the cracks of the stone.

Lucian stopped at the threshold and watched them.

They weren't healed.

But they were acting like people again.

He found Prince Alexander seated on the edge of a broken plinth, staring at a mural Lucian hadn't noticed before. A depiction of the first bell — cracked in half and bleeding sand.

"I left the quarters," Lucian said.

The prince didn't look at him. "Did they force you?"

"No."

"You felt it coming, didn't you?"

Lucian nodded.

Alexander smiled faintly. "The loop kept us numb. The pain was always there, but the system buffered it. Now that it's broken, you're getting all of it. Raw."

Lucian said nothing. He leaned his cane against the wall and sat beside the prince.

"I can feel it too," Alexander added. "Even without the rites. My mind is clearer. Sharper. But my chest hurts constantly. I think it's grief."

Lucian laughed bitterly. "You think?"

Alexander shrugged. "We don't get words for this sort of thing down here. Just echoes."

+

That night, Lucian dreamed of Alaric.

Not a vision — more like an impression. A memory of a moment he never lived.

Alaric stood at a desk, papers scattered, eyes hollow. The cane leaned in the corner behind him, almost forgotten.

He looked up and spoke to someone unseen.

To Lucian, maybe.

"I wanted to save them too. At first. But death isn't the burden. It's empathy without control. That's what breaks you."

+

Lucian woke in a cold sweat.

The Grimoire sat open beside him. A single line had written itself in crisp, black ink:

You are beginning to understand.

He tried to eat that morning and couldn't.

Every bite tasted like dust and absence.

So he walked instead — out into the back of the annex grounds, where the earth dipped and the mourning lake waited.

The fish were still there.

He knelt at the edge, watching them flicker like stars beneath the surface. One drifted close to the bank.

Lucian reached out and gently lifted it.

It didn't resist.

He held it a moment longer than last time. Studied it. A soft pulse in his palm, like a second heartbeat.

And then — flat.

Dead.

He returned it to the water.

It didn't rise.

Lucian exhaled slowly, closed his eyes.

"Are you listening?"

The Grimoire pulsed once and flipped itself open.

The page was blank.

Then a single sentence appeared across the page:

We all are.

+

Later that evening, the message came not from the Queen, but from Mayor Gray.

Not formal. Not sealed.

Just a courier holding a single line:

Staesis has no room for wild rituals or prophets. We ask that you remain where you are — and do not interfere further.

Lucian read it, folded it, and dropped it into the fire.

The ashes rose and curled into something resembling a name.

He didn't watch them fall.

+

Down in the mausoleum, the citizens were whispering names again.

Lucian sat at the mural with the Prince. Alice joined him, quiet, her gaze tracking the ceiling like she saw something he didn't.

"They'll come for you," Alexander said.

Lucian nodded.

"They'll say it's for stability. They'll try to push you out. Frame you as an anomaly."

"They already are."

"Will you leave?"

"No."

Alexander's voice was almost soft. "You're going to try to fix what can't be fixed."

Lucian looked at the mural again. "Maybe."

"You're going to feel everything."

"I already do."

The Prince said nothing else.

The Grimoire fluttered open on its own.

The page flickered — half-written text, still bleeding.

You rang the bell. The echo is yours now.

System interface has entered Witness Phase.

No more rites will be given.

You must write your own.

Lucian didn't tremble.

He didn't weep.

He simply reached for his ink, and began to write.