The Return of the King
The throne beneath Shinji was warm.
Not comforting — alive.
Obsidian bones shifted faintly under his weight, whispering in a language without sound. Rivers of souls flowed far below, bending instinctively toward him like grass beneath a storm wind. Every scream in the underworld existed at the edge of his hearing, distant but obedient.
Hinata stood before him, hands folded within her sleeves.
"Two months have passed in the world of the living," she said quietly. "Your body has finished rotting."
Shinji didn't flinch.
He looked down at his hands — whole, steady, glowing faintly with underworld authority. "And my soul?"
"Anchored," Hinata replied. "Crowned. Bound."
She stepped aside.
Behind her, the air folded inward, forming a vertical slit of darkness so deep it swallowed light itself. The dungeon appeared beyond it — cold stone, broken pillars, dried blood.
At its center—
Bones.
Shinji's bones.
They lay scattered where he had fallen. White. Clean. Forgotten. His armor rusted and collapsed inward like a shed skin. No flesh. No breath. No heartbeat.
The silence was complete.
Hinata's voice softened — just slightly.
"Once you cross, there is no resurrection. Only dominion."
Shinji stood.
The underworld responded.
A pressure rippled outward from the throne, racing through rivers of souls, through screaming caverns, through realms unseen. Bells rang somewhere far beyond reality — ancient, cracked bells that had not moved in centuries.
Shinji stepped forward.
The gate swallowed him whole.
The Dungeon — Two Months Later
Nothing moved.
Dust clung to the walls like a burial shroud. The smell of iron had faded, replaced by cold stone and rot. The rune-sealed door stood crooked, scratched from repeated openings — then abandonment.
At the center of the chamber—
Bones lay still.
Then—
The temperature dropped.
Not suddenly.
Not violently.
As if the dungeon itself realized it was no longer alone.
Shadows stretched along the walls, bending toward the skeleton like kneeling figures. Mana pooled unnaturally, thick and sluggish, swirling in slow spirals.
A black aura bled into the chamber.
It didn't explode.
It commanded.
The bones trembled.
One finger twitched.
Then another.
The skull tilted upward with a soft, dry click.
Cracks spiderwebbed across the dungeon floor as pressure built — a presence so heavy the walls groaned. Somewhere far above, clouds dimmed for a single heartbeat. Not darkness — recognition.
The underworld exhaled.
Flesh began to form.
Not healing.
Obedience.
Black threads wrapped around the bones, knitting muscle into place strand by strand. Tendons tightened. Organs reassembled with wet, deliberate sounds. A ribcage sealed itself. A spine straightened.
Skin followed — pale at first, then darkening, veins lighting faintly crimson beneath it.
A heart formed last.
It did not beat.
Until—
THUD
The sound echoed through the dungeon like a drum struck at a funeral.
THUD
Mana surged violently.
Eyes ignited.
Crimson light burned within newly formed sockets, cutting through the darkness like twin embers.
Shinji inhaled.
The sound was wrong.
Too deep.
Too calm.
Too final.
He rose to his feet in a single smooth motion, bones no longer creaking, muscles perfectly aligned. His presence crushed the air, making the dungeon feel smaller — insufficient.
Azura lay nearby.
The sword trembled.
Shinji reached down and grasped the hilt.
The blade bowed.
He straightened, gaze sweeping the chamber. Dried blood stained the floor. Claw marks scarred the walls. No demons remained. No bodies but his own former self.
"…Two months," Shinji murmured.
His voice carried weight now — not volume, but authority.
A ripple passed through the dungeon.
Far away, demons shuddered.
In the underworld, souls went silent.
Somewhere beyond the veil of worlds—
Something ancient smiled.
Shinji stepped forward, shadows peeling away from his feet like obedient servants.
"The king," he said quietly, "has returned."
Part Two: What Walks Away from Death
The last demon fell without a sound.
Its body collapsed inward, crushed along a line so clean it took a heartbeat for the forest to understand what had happened. Blood rushed back toward Azura in thin red threads, vanishing into the blade until the steel dimmed to its resting blue.
Shinji exhaled.
Around him, the forest remained frozen.
Five adventurers stood where they had stopped running, weapons half-raised, eyes locked on him as if he might vanish if they blinked.
No one spoke.
Shinji sheathed Azura.
The sound — click — broke the spell.
"You're safe," he said.
His voice carried no pride. No warning. Just fact.
One of them — a young man with a cracked shield and mud-streaked armor — dropped to a knee, breathing hard. "We… we thought we were dead."
"You were close."
That earned a weak laugh from someone behind him. It died quickly.
Shinji turned away from the demon remains and looked down the forest path. The dungeon entrance loomed in the distance between the trees, its stone maw dark and quiet, as if nothing had happened there at all.
He did not look at it for long.
"You're headed to the city," Shinji said.
The bowwoman nodded quickly. "Y-yes. To the guild. We have demon ore—we were escorting it when those things—"
"Walk," Shinji said.
They obeyed.
The Journey
The first hours passed in silence.
The forest was thick here — roots clawing up through the soil, branches knotted together overhead. Shinji walked at the front, pace steady, unhurried. He did not scan the trees like a nervous guard.
The forest scanned him.
A pack of lesser beasts emerged once — yellow-eyed things with too many joints. They froze the moment Shinji's gaze brushed over them, then melted back into the undergrowth without a sound.
The adventurers noticed.
No one commented.
By midday, the injured man began to slow. Shinji stopped without being asked, tore cloth from his sleeve, and rewrapped the wound with cleaner pressure.
"You don't need to—" the man started.
"Sit still," Shinji replied.
The tone left no room for argument.
They camped at dusk beside a shallow stream. Firelight flickered against the trees. Someone offered Shinji rations.
He declined.
That night, one of the adventurers woke screaming from a nightmare about demons with blue eyes.
Shinji stood watch until dawn.
Nothing approached.
The second day was quieter.
Birdsong returned. The forest thinned. The road widened from dirt path to stone-lined trail. Civilization crept back in small ways — broken signposts, old wagon ruts, a shrine cracked in half by age.
The adventurers began to talk again.
Not to Shinji.
About him.
In whispers they thought he couldn't hear.
By late afternoon, the city walls appeared on the horizon — gray stone catching pale light, banners stirring lazily in the wind.
Relief washed through the group.
Shinji slowed.
They noticed and stopped with him.
The forest behind them felt… distant now.
That was when it happened.
The First Whisper
The air brushed his ear.
Not wind.
Not sound.
A voice, careful and soft.
"An E-rank's life is worth less than a B-rank's gear."
Shinji did not react.
His heartbeat did not change.
But the world thinned for a moment, like paper held too close to flame.
The adventurers laughed behind him — nervous, relieved laughter as the city came into full view.
They did not hear it.
Shinji stepped forward.
The whisper did not follow.
They reached the outer farmlands by nightfall and camped once more. Shinji said little. The adventurers spoke freely now, courage returning with distance.
At dawn, they packed up and continued.
The city gates rose before them by noon.
Stone. Steel. Humanity.
Shinji stopped one last time.
The whisper returned.
Clearer.
Closer.
Right at the threshold between forest and city.
"An E-rank's life is worth less than a B-rank's gear."
A pause.
Then nothing.
No echo.
No repetition.
The silence afterward was complete.
Shinji crossed the line.
The forest did not follow.
Part Three: The Guild Hall Where a Dead Man Walks
Noise hit first.
Shouts. Laughter. Steel ringing against steel. The living chaos of people who believed tomorrow was guaranteed.
The adventurers straightened as they passed through the gate, confidence returning like armor being strapped back on. Guards glanced at Shinji — then away. Their hands hovered near spears without knowing why.
The Adventurer's Guild dominated the square ahead.
Wide doors. Stone pillars carved with rank sigils. A place where lives were weighed in coin and paper.
The adventurers headed straight for it.
"So… um," the bowwoman said, glancing at Shinji. "Will you be selling ore too?"
"No."
They hesitated. "You can come in anyway. Drinks are cheap today."
Shinji nodded once.
Inside, the guild hall roared.
Parties crowded the counters, sacks of ore dumped and appraised, clerks shouting figures. Notices were hammered onto boards. The smell of sweat, ink, ale, and blood filled the air.
Then—
Silence spread.
Not all at once.
Like a spill.
Someone stared.
Someone else followed their gaze.
A mug shattered on the floor.
"Is that—?"
"No, that's impossible."
"He died. I saw his name crossed out."
The adventurers slowed, confused.
Shinji walked on.
A few older guild members backed away instinctively. One dropped to a knee without realizing it. Whispers raced faster than sound.
At the far counter, a familiar party laughed.
New armor. New weapons. Heavy sacks of ore.
The Escarba Party.
They didn't notice the silence at first.
Then their healer turned.
Her smile collapsed.
Color drained from her face so fast it looked like something had been taken.
The swordsman followed her gaze.
His hand slipped from his weapon.
"…Shinji?"
Shinji stopped three steps inside the hall.
He did not look angry.
He did not look pleased.
He looked past them — through them — like obstacles already accounted for.
The guild hall held its breath.
Shinji spoke once.
"I'm here to sell nothing."
Then he stepped aside, letting the new adventurers pass him toward the counter.
The room did not exhale.
Not yet.
Part Three: What Was Never Theirs
The guild hall was silent.
Not abruptly — not violently — but completely, like sound itself had chosen to step aside.
Shinji walked forward with the new adventurers at his side. Their boots scuffed the stone floor far louder than his own. Every eye in the hall followed them, some wide with disbelief, others already clouded with fear.
No one spoke.
The guild secretary sat stiffly behind the counter, quill frozen mid-air. His gaze flicked once to Shinji, then away, like looking directly was a mistake.
The adventurers set their sacks down.
"O-ore sale," one of them said, voice cracking.
The secretary swallowed. "Y-yes. Of course."
Weights were placed. Numbers muttered. Coins counted with trembling hands.
Shinji waited.
He felt it before he saw it.
A pull.
His eyes drifted away from the counter, drawn toward the center of the hall where a round wooden table stood. Plates, mugs, half-finished meals.
And there—
A dagger.
Short. Narrow. Slight curve near the hilt. The leather grip worn smooth where a thumb had rested countless times.
His thumb.
Shinji's gaze fixed.
The Escarba Party sat around that table.
They had been laughing moments ago. Now they were very still.
Yuna's eyes followed Shinji's line of sight.
Her face went pale.
"No…" she whispered.
The swordsman noticed next. Then the tank. Then the mage.
Recognition hit them all at once.
Shinji stepped away from the counter.
The sound of his boots crossing the hall felt impossibly loud in the quiet.
The Escarba Party watched him approach, tension coiling tight in their shoulders. Fear twisted into expectation — he's coming for us.
He wasn't.
Shinji stopped at the table.
He reached down.
His fingers closed around the dagger.
The moment he lifted it, a mug tipped over and shattered on the floor.
Shinji weighed the dagger in his hand once.
"…So this is where it ended up."
Yuna's voice trembled. "Shinji… please—"
The swordsman shoved his chair back violently. "You don't get to act like this!" he snarled, forcing bravado into his voice. "You were weak! You always were—!"
He grabbed for his sword.
Shinji exhaled.
That was all.
The air dropped.
Not pressure — authority.
The swordsman's body locked instantly. Fingers froze inches from the hilt. His knees buckled, but he didn't fall — held upright by terror alone.
His eyes went wide.
He couldn't move.
Not a finger.
Not a breath.
His morale didn't break.
It shattered.
Across the hall, adventurers felt it too — an instinctive understanding that something far above them had passed judgment, and found them irrelevant.
Shinji slid the dagger into his belt.
He looked at the swordsman once.
"Don't touch things that aren't yours," he said quietly.
Then he turned back toward the counter.
The pressure vanished.
The swordsman collapsed into his chair, gasping, sweat pouring down his face.
The guild hall stayed silent.
Shinji stopped beside the new adventurers. Their payment had been counted. The secretary slid the coin pouch forward with shaking hands.
"Transaction complete," Shinji said.
He did not look at the Escarba Party again.
As he walked toward the exit, people stepped aside without realizing they were doing it.
The doors opened.
Shinji left.
Behind him, the Escarba Party sat frozen at their table, staring at the empty space where he had stood — finally understanding that they were not enemies.
They were nothing.