My days began with the first light of dawn, the cold air seeping into my bones as I rose from the wooden cot in the church's guest quarters.
The mattress was stiff, the frame creaked with every movement, but I was getting used to it.
The scent of old parchment and candle wax lingered in the air, a quiet reminder of where I was.
I made my way to the chapel, where the morning prayers were already being recited by the sisters. Their voices wove together in solemn harmony, the ancient language of Hubrien rolling off their tongues like a sacred hymn. I sat at the back, listening but not joining in just yet. My pronunciation was still clumsy, and I didn't want to disrupt the rhythm.
Afterward, I met with Father Lucian. A stout man with graying hair and a sharp gaze, he oversaw the church's daily affairs and had been the one to approve my role as the graveyard keeper.
Though I had yet to officially take on the responsibility, he made sure I was learning what I needed.
"Here," he said, placing a few silver coins into my palm.
"Your allowance. It's not much, but it should cover your meals and any small necessities."
I weighed the coins in my hand—five silvers. Currency was still something I was figuring out, but I was starting to understand its value.
"How much is a loaf of bread?" I asked.
Lucian stroked his beard. "Depends on the baker. At Sister Miriam's shop, a small loaf is four copper, seven for a larger one. If you want something with honey or dried fruit, that'll be ten."
A quick mental conversion told me one silver equaled a hundred copper. With five hundred copper to my name, I could sustain myself on bread alone for over seventy days—assuming I didn't need anything else.
"I'll manage," I said.
Lucian gave a short nod. "Good. But if you need anything, don't hesitate to ask."
With the morning prayers complete, I set off toward the graveyard. It was still under the church's care until I was fully entrusted with it, but tending to it had become part of my routine.
The path was uneven, lined with weathered cobblestones and overgrown grass.
After a fifteen-minute walk, I reached the iron gate. It groaned in protest as I pushed it open, revealing rows of gravestones—some simple, others carved with prayers and sacred symbols. The air here was different. Heavy. Quiet.
Six bodies had been delivered for purification today. Wrapped in linen, they awaited their final rites. Without a proper burial, there was always a risk of something unnatural taking root.
As I took note of them, Sister Elara arrived. She was one of the more talkative nuns, her sharp green eyes studying me beneath her veil.
"Morning," she greeted.
"Morning," I replied.
She glanced at the bodies, then back at me. "You're getting used to this, aren't you?"
I nodded. "It's becoming routine."
Elara tilted her head slightly. "Most newcomers are unsettled by the dead. You're not."
I thought about that. Maybe I should have been. Maybe, if I had come straight from my old world, I would have been. But after everything I had endured, the dead didn't frighten me. The unknown did.
"I don't think much about it," I admitted. "I just go with the flow."
Elara smirked. "That's an unusual way to live."
"Maybe."
She hummed in amusement before gesturing to the wrapped bodies. "We'll need to perform the rites later. Will you assist?"
I hesitated. My grasp of Hubrien was still shaky, but I couldn't avoid it forever.
"Yeah," I said. "I'll assist."
By midday, I made my way into the village. The streets bustled with life, merchants calling out their wares, the scent of fresh bread and burning firewood filling the air.
Sister Miriam's bakery was a modest stone-and-timber building, a wooden sign above the door engraved with a loaf of bread. Inside, the warmth of the ovens wrapped around me, the shelves lined with loaves, rolls, and pastries.
Miriam, a plump woman with graying hair, glanced up from kneading dough.
"Ah, the little graveyard keeper," she said with a grin. "Come for some bread?"
I nodded. "A small loaf."
She wrapped one in cloth and set it on the counter. "Four copper."
I handed her the coins, then hesitated. "Do you sell anything with spices?"
Miriam raised a brow. "Spices? Not often. Cinnamon and nutmeg are expensive—only the wealthier folk buy them."
I filed that information away. If spices were a luxury, then someone who could introduce better trade routes or alternative sources could make a fortune.
"Shame," I said. "I was hoping for something different."
"You from the south?" she asked. "Southerners like strong flavors."
I shook my head. "Just curious."
Miriam hummed but didn't press further.
That evening, I returned to the chapel for my studies. Father Lucian tested me on the prayers, and though I stumbled, I was improving. The Hubrien language still felt foreign on my tongue, but I was beginning to grasp its weight—the way each word carried meaning beyond its syllables.
At one point, I hesitated and frowned.
"I never asked," I said. "What exactly is mana? And how does it connect to spirits and the undead?"
Lucian closed his book and studied me for a moment before speaking.
"Mana is the essence that flows through all things," he said. "The breath of the gods. It shapes miracles and magic alike."
"And spirits?"
"They are echoes. Some say remnants of the soul. Others believe they are merely lingering energy, given form by strong emotions. But what we do know is this—without proper rites, the dead do not always fade."
That tracked with what I had learned. The fall of the God of Death's church had disrupted the natural cycle. That meant more wandering souls. More problems.
"And the undead?" I pressed.
Lucian's expression darkened. "The undead are not spirits. They are husks, animated by corrupted mana. A true undead does not retain its soul—it is merely a body, controlled by something else."
Something else.
I didn't like the sound of that.
I furrowed my brow. "Then… what are those 'something else' that control the undead?"
Father Lucian, who had been calmly turning the pages of an old tome, suddenly stopped. The dim candlelight flickered against his aged face, casting shadows beneath his tired eyes.
He closed the book with a quiet thud and folded his hands over it.
"You ask a dangerous question," he said, his voice lower than before.
I didn't flinch, looking at him.
Lucian let out a slow breath. He looked at me, really looked at me, before shaking his head. "Not yet."
That was not what I expected. "Why not?"
"You need understanding before knowledge." His fingers tapped against the wooden table in a rhythmic pattern.
Tuk, tuk, tuk.
"Some truths are bound to the soul. If you force them into a mind unprepared, the mind will break. Or worse—the soul will shatter."
I blinked. "You mean people die just by learning things?"
Lucian gave a grim nod. "More than you think. Some truths cannot be known without consequence. It is the same as mortals knowing gods—those who attempt to grasp divinity without preparation…" He lifted his hand, then clenched his fist.
"...explode."
I stared at him, waiting for any sign that he was joking. He wasn't.
A sudden gust of wind rattled the window.
Clack, clack.
The wooden sign outside the church swayed violently, its chains groaning. I exhaled, trying to process everything.
I had thought knowledge was power. But here, knowledge could also be death.
---
Morning came with the distant cries of roosters and the muffled chatter of villagers setting up their stalls. My routine had become familiar by now—wake up, wash my face in the cold basin, and head to the chapel for morning prayers.
I stumbled over the Hubrien words again, my tongue tripping on the sharp syllables. The ancient language was beautiful, but damn, was it difficult.
After prayers, I received my usual allowance from Father Lucian
"Morning, boy," he greeted, placing the five silvers into my palm.
I pocketed them, nodding. "Morning."
Abel chuckled, stroking his beard. "You're always so stiff. Loosen up. A man your age should laugh once in a while."
"I laugh," I said.
"No, you exhale sharply through your nose."
"…That's still laughing."
He rolled his eyes and waved me off. "Go get your bread, gravekeeper."
---
I stepped into the village streets, greeted by the lively sounds of the morning market. The air was thick with the scent of freshly baked goods, grilled meat, and hints of damp earth.
Chatter, laughter, footsteps against cobblestone.
People bustled about, exchanging coins and greetings. The village wasn't large, but it had its share of personalities.
First was Old Man Joren, the town's cobbler. He sat outside his shop, hammering nails into a leather sole. Tap, tap, tap. His hands were wrinkled and rough, his bald head reflecting the morning sun.
"Morning, boy," he grunted.
"Morning," I replied.
"Hmph." He didn't say anything else, just kept hammering. That was Joren. The man barely spoke more than a few words at a time.
Next was Elira, a young woman selling apples near the well. She was the kind of person who could talk endlessly about nothing.
"Ah! The gravekeeper!" She beamed, holding up a bright red apple. "Look at these! Freshly picked this morning! You should try one! An apple a day keeps the spirits away, you know?"
I raised an eyebrow. "That's not how that saying goes."
She grinned. "It is now."
I shook my head and kept walking.
Finally, I reached Sister Miriam's bakery. The smell of warm bread was stronger here, making my stomach growl.
Ding. The small bell above the door chimed as I entered.
Miriam, the plump baker, was already busy kneading dough behind the counter. "Ah, you again."
I nodded. "One loaf."
She grabbed a small loaf, wrapping it in cloth. "Four copper."
I handed over the coins and hesitated. "Do you ever sell anything with spices?"
Miriam sighed. "You and your spices again. You got expensive tastes, boy."
I shrugged. "Just curious."
"Hmph. If you want spices, go ask Old Fennel. He's the only one who keeps any, and he charges a damn fortune."
Old Fennel? Another name to remember.
I took my bread and stepped outside, taking a small bite as I walked back toward the church.
---
The rest of the day passed in a blur of lessons.
I practiced the chants again, my throat growing sore from repeating the same verses over and over. The Hubrien prayers were rigid, precise—one wrong syllable, and the meaning changed entirely.
"O blessed keeper of life, weave thy grace upon the lost,
Guide their steps to slumber, their rest undisturbed,
May the veil of dusk shelter their passing,
And may the gentle hands of eternity embrace their souls."
The words weren't just for the dead—they were meant to guide me as well. To recite these prayers was to link myself to something beyond the mortal world.
It wasn't just language. It was a ritual. A contract.
I also started practicing spirit sight. Lucian explained that spirits weren't always visible to the naked eye—they lingered in a separate layer of reality, the Ethereal Veil.
"The Ethereal Veil exists alongside our world," he said, pacing the chapel floor. "It is neither here nor there, but between. When we pray, when we call upon the gods, we touch that space—if only for a moment."
I frowned. "And what are the risks?"
Lucian stopped pacing. His expression darkened.
"There are always risks."
A heavy silence filled the air.
I exhaled. "So… let me guess. People have died trying to look beyond the veil?"
"Not just died." He turned to me. "Some never returned at all."
My skin prickled. I didn't press further.
I still had a lot to learn. And if I wanted to survive in this world, I had to be careful about what I chose to learn.
I had come to this world without knowledge, without power. But information was power. And little by little, I was starting to understand how things worked.
That night, as I lay on my cot, staring at the ceiling, I knew one thing for certain.
If I wanted to survive here, I needed to learn everything.