That night, sleep didn't come easily.
Lying on the stiff cot, I stared at the wooden ceiling, my mind a tangled mess of thoughts.
The graveyard keeper role wasn't just about digging holes and counting bodies.
If the previous keeper had vanished, then something took him. Whether that was an undead problem, foul play, or something worse, I had no idea.
And yet, I had volunteered for the same position without knowing the full risks.
I cursed under my breath. I should have asked more questions.
I had been so focused on securing stability that I had overlooked the most fundamental things. How does mana work in this world? What about spiritualism? What even defines an undead?
I had no frame of reference. For all I knew, this world had necromancers running around, raising corpses like it was a weekend hobby.
I sighed. I need to fix this first thing in the morning.
Even if the church wasn't hiding anything, my own ignorance was dangerous. If I didn't understand how the supernatural functioned here, I wouldn't just be making mistakes—I'd be walking blindly into a world where those mistakes could get me killed.
I turned onto my side, shutting my eyes. The old wooden walls creaked as the wind whispered through the cracks. In the distance, an owl hooted, its lonely call swallowed by the vast silence of the night.
Despite my exhaustion, I remained awake far longer than I wanted.
---
Morning came too soon.
A soft knock on the door stirred me. I opened my eyes to see Elara, the young nun from before, peeking in with a warm smile.
"Good morning, Grimm," she greeted. "How are you feeling today?"
I stretched, wincing as my body protested. "Better than yesterday."
She stepped inside, carrying a small tray of food—more of the bland vegetable soup.
"You'll need your strength before training begins. Father Lucian is waiting for you after breakfast."
I took the bowl, forcing myself to eat despite the utter lack of flavor. "Elara," I said between sips, "I realized I haven't asked something important."
She tilted her head. "Oh? What is it?"
I hesitated, then decided to be direct. "Mana. Spiritualism. Undead. How do they work in this world?"
Her eyes widened slightly, as if surprised I didn't already know. "That's… a big question."
"I should've asked sooner," I admitted. "If I'm dealing with the dead, I need to understand how they rise in the first place."
Elara nodded, setting her hands in her lap as she thought. "Mana exists in all living things," she began.
"Some are born with more, some with less. But magic itself is a gift from the gods, channeling their will through those they bless."
I frowned. "So only the faithful can use magic?"
She smiled at that. "Not exactly. Some people manipulate mana naturally, without divine favor. But true miracles—the kind that heal wounds or banish curses—only come from the gods' blessings."
That lined up with what I had expected. "And spiritualism?"
"Spirits exist all around us," she said, her voice lowering slightly. "Some linger because of unfinished business. Some because they refuse to move on. And others…" She hesitated.
"Others are bound by darker forces."
I caught the shift in her tone. "Like necromancy?"
Her expression darkened. "Yes. Undead are not natural. They are a corruption, an offense to the cycle of life and death.Most of the time, they rise because of improper burials or cursed land, but some…" Her hands tightened on her lap. "Some are created intentionally."
I filed that information away. If undead could rise naturally, then the graveyard job wasn't just about digging graves—it was about preventing the dead from coming back.
"I see," I said. "Thanks for explaining."
She studied me for a moment, as if trying to figure something out, then nodded.
"You'll learn more in your training. Be careful, Grimm. The dead don't always stay where they're supposed to."
After breakfast, I found Father Lucian waiting for me in the small chapel, his hands resting on an old leather-bound book.
"Are you ready for your teachings?" he asked.
I nodded.
He gestured for me to sit. "Before you take the role of graveyard keeper, you must understand the rites of the departed. The church does not merely bury the dead—we ensure their passage is undisturbed."
He opened the book, revealing pages filled with intricate symbols and faded text. "This," he said, tapping the first page, "is the prayer of passing. It is spoken over every soul to grant them peace in the afterlife. Without it, a spirit may linger… and lingering spirits are vulnerable to corruption."
I listened carefully as he explained the different rites, how each step was meant to guide the soul and prevent it from straying.
The more I learned, the more I realized how much responsibility this job actually carried.
It wasn't just about shoveling dirt.
It was about making sure the dead stayed dead.
And considering the fate of the last keeper… I had a feeling that wouldn't be as easy as it sounded.
Father Lucian guided me to a quiet chamber within the chapel, a dimly lit room lined with old tomes and faded scrolls.
A single candle flickered on the stone table between us, its light casting long shadows on the walls.
"The rites of the dead are not merely tradition," he said, his voice solemn. "They are a barrier. Without them, the restless dead would walk among us."
I nodded, already aware of the weight of my role. "I want to start with the prayers," I said.
"If words can prevent spirits from lingering, I need to master them first."
Father Lucian gave me an approving look before pulling out an aged parchment.
"This is the Cantus Mortem, the most fundamental prayer for the departed. It must be spoken in Hubrien, the language of the ancients, for only this tongue carries the weight of divine command."
I traced my fingers over the script. The letters were unfamiliar, twisting and curling in ways that made them hard to read.
"Speak it," Lucian instructed.
I took a breath and attempted the first line.
"Hir vexa lumenor, en doura illume."
The moment the words left my mouth, a strange sensation gripped me—a weight pressing on my chest, as if the very air had thickened.
Lucian watched carefully. "Again."
"Hir vexa lumenor, en doura illume."
This time, I felt it move—something unseen, shifting just at the edges of my senses. It was subtle, but undeniable.
Lucian nodded in approval. "You feel it, don't you?"
I exhaled sharply. "What was that?"
"The nature of Hubrien," he said. "It is not merely a language. It carries an intrinsic power, one that binds the will of the gods to our words.When spoken correctly, it resonates with the divine. When spoken improperly…" He paused. "It is nothing more than empty sound."
I frowned. "Then learning it isn't just about memorization—it's about understanding it?"
"Precisely."
That made things far more complicated. I was used to learning through logic, patterns, repetition. But Hubrien wasn't just words; it was intent.
Lucian handed me another scroll. "This one is more advanced. The Rite of Passage."
I read through the lines, this time more cautiously.
"Vexa lumin, en daor en maren. Rhaem tovaren, ex illume."
I stumbled on the last word, and immediately, the pressure I had felt earlier vanished.
Lucian shook his head. "You severed the flow. The meaning must be carried from start to finish without hesitation. Even a single mispronunciation could render the prayer ineffective."
I clenched my jaw, realizing how dangerous that could be. "And what happens if I fail during an actual ritual?"
His gaze darkened. "Then the soul is left unguarded."
I didn't ask what that meant. I could already imagine the consequences.
As the lessons continued, I learned not just the prayers but the history behind them.
The God of Life, the one worshipped in this church, was said to be the first to shape the cycle of existence.
But life could not exist without death, and thus, the God of Death was born alongside them.
The two were meant to work in harmony, ensuring the balance of the living and the departed.
But that balance had been shattered a hundred years ago.
"The Heretics," Lucian explained, his voice low, "targeted the followers of the God of Death. Their reasons are lost to time, but what is known is this—when the last great temple of death was destroyed, something changed in the world."
I leaned forward. "What changed?"
"The natural order."
He glanced at the candlelight, his expression unreadable. "Before, the dead would pass on peacefully. Now… many do not. Spirits linger where they shouldn't. The undead rise where they never would have before."
That explained the growing need for graveyard keepers.
"So," I said carefully, "without the God of Death's influence, the dead struggle to move on?"
Lucian nodded. "And worse, something else has taken interest in them."
A chill ran down my spine. "Something else?"
"There are whispers of entities that feed on wandering souls. That twist them. Corrupt them."
He met my gaze. "That is why you must never take the rites lightly. The moment you falter, the moment a soul lingers too long in confusion or pain… something else will claim it."
I inhaled slowly. This was no simple job.
It was a constant battle.
And yet, I needed to do it. Not just for survival, but because if the church was right, then every failure meant another lost soul.
"I understand," I said.
Lucian studied me for a moment, then finally nodded.
"Good. Now, let's see if you can recite the Cantus Mortem without error."
I took a deep breath and began again.
"Hir vexa lumenor, en doura illume."
This time, my voice did not waver.