The ghost clapped—or tried to. His spectral hands passed through each other with no sound. Enthusiasm, though, was there.
I didn't hesitate. Fueled by an infant's boundless curiosity and a total lack of spatial awareness, I stepped onto the window ledge, took a deep breath (mostly for dramatic flair), and hurled myself into the open night.
I didn't fall.
A tangerine glow bloomed beneath my feet—warm, vibrant, obedient. My mana stretched into a shimmering path, suspended in the dark.
I wasn't floating. I was walking on air. Each step a quiet rebellion against gravity.
I'd been training for over a year. Mana control wasn't for most babies. But I wasn't most babies.
Ahead, the ghost glided like a will-o'-the-wisp, silent and sure. I followed, feet pattering softly across the glowing trail. The wind whispered past, thick with secrets and mossy earth.
This was it. My first real adventure.
Then—bzzzt.
A shimmer appeared in the dark. Subtle, golden, humming with quiet authority.
Dad's barrier. Of course.
A ward to keep dangers out… and toddlers like me in.
The ghost flickered, panic brushing his glow. He gestured at the barrier, floating closer.
"Master, what course of action should we pursue?" His voice was gentle, almost pleading. "I can traverse it… while you, regrettably, cannot."
I hovered, tangerine light curling at my ankles, arms crossed. Eyes narrowing.
"Oh, I can get through," I murmured.
Brute force wouldn't work. This barrier is too strong—woven with layers of complex magic.
And let's be honest—I barely had working knees.
But I had something better. Knowledge.
Memories from my past life. Patterns. Energy. Pressure. Science. Magic was just misunderstood physics with glitter.
"Alright," I whispered, pressing my tiny palm to the shimmering surface.
I didn't push. I listened.
Mana currents hummed beneath my skin. Wavelengths pulsed. I traced the subtle harmonic gaps, the fault lines in the weave, the hidden cracks in the golden lattice.
And then… It began.
The barrier didn't shatter. It melted. Threads of divine energy unwove like knots in an old rope. Quiet. Careful. Yielding only to someone who understood its rhythm.
A small opening appeared. It widened—just enough for me.
The ghost blinked—or tried to. His form flickered like a candle caught in a storm.
"You… you did it," he murmured, awe threading his voice.
I smirked. Adventure always had a price—and thrill was mine to collect.
"Master, for one so young, you exhibit remarkable intelligence. I must apologize for my lack of foresight—and, shall we say, misjudgment of your capabilities."
I smirked, though it looked wrong on a baby's face. Too sharp. Too knowing.
"Yeah, that's fine. But drop the whole 'master' thing. I'm only a toddler. It's weird."
"Indeed—Mast—ah, young Master—my apologies. I should have known bett—"
Then it hit me.
Cold.
Not the kind that brushes your skin, but the kind that seeps into bone marrow.
From past the tear in the barrier—the forest stirred like something waking.
The wind died, the night stilled, and pressure crawled over my skin like a thousand invisible ants.
And in that silence—
A whisper.
Not words. Intent.
Ancient. Malevolent. Hungry.
The mana underfoot faltered, its tangerine glow breaking into nervous flickers. Sweat slicked my palms against the milk bottles at my waist.
I turned to the ghost, my tiny face twisted in sheer terror.
"H-hey, old man," I rasped. "What's in there? I can feel… something. Something really bad."
The ghost's glow flickered, his tone suddenly too formal, too measured.
"I offer my sincerest apologies, young Master. It appears I omitted a relevant detail. The malevolent entity dwelling deep within this forest has indeed been securely sealed… but for a very long time."
Still, fear clung like a wet blanket.
I clenched my fists.
Took one shuddering breath.
Then another. Slap, slap—I smacked both cheeks in my tiny ritual of courage. Not bravery, exactly. Just enough to move.
And I stepped through the barrier.
Not like a hero striding into glory. My steps were slow, scanning the ground—not for a path, but for something sharp.
There. A jagged stone. Perfect.
"Young Master, what curiosity leads you to your downfall?" the ghost asked, baffled.
I ignored him.
"May I inquire what you hold there?" he pressed, drifting closer like a translucent nanny.
I looked up, eyes shining. "Oh, hey, old man. Found this stone. It's perfect!"
"Perfect for what?"
"For my experiment," I grinned.
"Experiment? May I ask wh—"
I glanced down at my bare foot, scratching my cheek sheepishly.
"Well… I wanna see what happens if I make a small cut. On my pinky toe."
The ghost's form jolted. "A CUT? On your TOE? Why in all the spectral planes would you—"
I picked the stone, avoiding his gaze.
I don't think Mom will notice if it's just my pinky toe," I thought hopefully.
The guilt creeping into my voice like a toddler who knows full well the cookie jar was off-limits.
I lowered the stone, took a breath. Excitement tangled with dread. And—slice.
"EEEEEEK!!"
The sting shot up my leg. A bright bead of blood welled on my toe, ruby under moonlight.
The ghost spun, shrieking in dizzy circles, babbling.
"Oh my goodness gracious! Young Master! WHAT in the spectral world have you DONE?!"
DO WE need a healing mage?! A necromancer?! A nan—"
He stopped.
The blood shivered, thinned, then vanished as if the skin drank it. The wound sealed smooth as glass
Gone.
No pain. No scar.
Healed. Just like that.
Just as I expected, I thought, squinting at my toe. "Though slower than my last life... maybe because of this weak little body?"
The ghost's glow guttered, his voice a whisper of awe and dread.
"My heavens…"
He just stared. "W-What in the afterlife?! It healed! Just like—a poof!"
"Let's see," I muttered, picking up the stone again. "Attempt number two."
This time, I lined it up with my index finger.
"By no means, Young Master — absolutely not!" the ghost shrieked, his form vibrating with sheer alarm. "I implore you — desist!
Have you misplaced your ethereal faculties?! One rapidly regenerating digit is quite sufficient for this evening, I assure you!"
He tried to grab my wrist. Failed, obviously—ghost hands. Still, he hovered anxiously.
Despite Ghost's frantic protests, my scientific curiosity won out.
I ignored his pleas, grabbed a slightly sharper stone, and with a steady (if slightly trembling) hand, made a shallow cut along my calf. It wasn't deep, but it was enough to sting... and to bleed.
The ghost let out a wail—a sound like wind screaming through a broken tombstone.
He whirled around my head, hands gripping his translucent cheeks in sheer horror.
"Nooooo! Young Master, you flesh-and-blood fool! What have you done now?! This recklessness—this tragic lapse in judgment! This can only end badly! I am certain!"
But I wasn't listening.
My eyes were glued to the wound.
The bleeding stopped. The torn skin twitched… then it began to knit back together.
Cell by cell, like time reversing on my flesh. Within seconds, the cut was completely gone—smooth, unbroken skin, like nothing had happened.
A grin spread across my face. Wide. Triumphant.
"That's it," I whispered. "It's regenerating. Just like… just like it did before."
I glanced up at Ghost, eyes practically glowing.
I told you, didn't I? It's not just the toes,
It's the whole.
"'Like before?'" he echoed slowly. "Young Master… what exactly do you mean by that?"
His voice lowered into a confused mutter.
I stood, brushing leaves and dirt off my pants.
I flexed my calf. It felt completely normal. Strong. Untouched.
"Well," I said with a confident smirk, "let's just go. You'll understand soon enough."
Without waiting for a reply, I turned and started walking—
No.
Striding forward.
———
They arrived before a gate unlike anything piers had ever seen—a twisted, swirling mass of gnarled wood, gnarled branches and roots coiled together in a shape that only vaguely resembled a circle. Chaotic. Wrong. As if a tree had grown out of madness itself.
The air pulsed with raw miasma, thick enough to feel like a second skin. It clawed at his senses, toxic and oppressive.
Without his knowing, Piers's mana stirred—flaring instinctively, weaving a steady veil that kept the noxious energy at bay.
"What is this place?" Piers muttered, voice tight.
"Hurry, Young Master!" the ghost barked, unusually sharp. "Through the gate—quickly!"
Still disoriented, Piers obeyed. A crude dome of mana shivered into being around him.
The grotesque threshold swallowed them whole—
—and the world shifted.
A cavern. Vast. Hollow. Breathing.
The miasma thinned enough to draw breath, but the air was still heavy, clinging cold that seeped into bone. Dark stone curved up into a jagged ceiling swallowed by shadow. Faint fungi clung to the rock, glowing like dying stars. The ground crunched underfoot with brittle roots and old bones.
It was clearer here. But not safe. Not by a long shot.
A snarl split the silence.
From the dark, something lunged.
Piers flinched. His small body moved before his mind caught up—a clumsy, instinctive dodge. He stumbled sideways, barely avoiding claws that raked the air where his head had been. He landed hard on one knee, heart pounding.
The creature stepped into the light.
A grotesque hybrid—humanoid in outline, but twisted beyond recognition.
Bone jutted from torn flesh.
Limbs bent wrong.
Its lower half writhed with yokai corruption, crawling with unnatural motion. And its eyes burned with hunger.
Piers's tiny fists curled at his sides. His breath shook, but he held his ground.
"W-what… is that?"
The ghost's voice cut sharp and clear.
"Young Master! Purify it—now!"
"W-What? I don't know how!" Piers shouted.
The creature swiped again.
Piers ducked, stumbled, scrambled—each dodge more desperate as its claws tore into stone.
"I don't know how to purify it!" he cried, frustration breaking into panic.
The ghost drifted closer, eerily calm. unflinching.
"Then why," he asked softly, "did you agree to help me, Young Master, if you possess no means to combat the darkness?"
Piers nearly tripped backward, barrier crackling under another strike.
"Because you said you'd teach me! Not throw me into a monster pit!"
The claws missed his face by inches. His barrier shrieked under the strain.
"Teach me now, you useless ghost!"
The words didn't just leave his mouth—they burst in the ghost's head, a desperate telepathic shout fueled by survival itself.
The ghost blinked—then, absurdly, struck a pose.
One arm outstretched, palm open. The other bent at the elbow, fist clenched with theatrical conviction.
A faint shimmer gathered around him and, impossibly, a triumphant musical sting rang out.
Slightly off-key. Like a broken lute trying too hard.
"Spirit… Wave!" he boomed.
"There! Copy me, Young Master! Focus your mana—channel your will—unleash the purifying light!"
Mid-dodge, Piers caught sight of the pose. He nearly lost his footing.
"Absolutely not," he hissed, eyes wide. "There's no way I'm doing that."
The yokai lunged again. His barrier screamed with strain.
The ghost flickered with impatience.
"You must! There is no other way!"
Cornered, gasping, Piers spat through clenched teeth:
"This is so stupid."
He planted his feet, dodged one final strike, and—with sheer reluctance—mimicked the pose.
One arm forward. One clenched. Focus.
"…Spirit. Wave."
Flat. Deadpan.
Nothing.
No holy light. No fire. Just silence. Sweat traced his temple.
But Then—
The yokai froze mid-lunge. Its eyes bulged. Limbs locked in grotesque stillness.
From its chest, a pale wisp tore free, writhing into shape—a girl. Young. Fragile. Barely a teenager. Her outline shivered like mist straining to hold form.
She hovered there, wide-eyed. Confused. Frightened. Free.
Piers blinked, stunned, realizing his hand was still outstretched.
The soul drifted forward and, almost naturally, settled in his palm.
The old man stared, his translucent form flickering like a candle guttering in the wind. For a heartbeat, he seemed on the verge of tears—if ghosts could. Shock and grief carved deep into his face as he gazed at his daughter's soul.
Then—ping.
Words seared themselves across Piers's vision.
Unique Skill: Soul Binding
Use Skill?
Piers blinked. Still reeling.
"Soul Binding?" he muttered. "... is it my skill?"
His gaze darted between the girl's soul, the frozen creature, and his own hand.
Curiosity sharpened, a strange hunger prickling beneath his skin. He focused on the word: accept.
The letters wavered, then reshaped.
Choose Vessel for the Soul:
Rock
Skull
Milk Bottle
Piers froze. His eyes dropped slowly to the half-empty milk bottle clutched in his fist.
"…Seriously?"
he muttered. "You want me to… bind a soul into a milk bottle?"
Still, something about it felt... right.
Alright choosing Milk bottle
A soft glow enveloped both the girl's soul and the container. They shimmered, then merged. Warmth pulsed through the glass—it was alive.
Piers looked at the old man, who drifted closer, eyes wide, voice trembling.
"Y-Young Master… What happened to her? Her soul—is she—?"
"Did you purify her?" he faltered.
Still dazed, Piers slowly held out the glowing bottle.
"Your daughter? I… I think she's in here now."
The old man stared, mouth agape. Reverently, eyes locked on the bottle.
"In a milk bottle…" he whispered. "Unthinkable. Remarkable…"
Then — A soft voice claws its way through glass.
"So quiet…" She paused, as if testing the words. Then, almost a whisper:
"Thank you… for pulling me out."
Piers jerked back. "She can talk?"
"Uh… you're welcome. Girl in a bottle."
The old man was already circling, tears streaming down his transparent face, reaching out but unable to touch the container.
"Father?" came the voice again. "Is that you? I… I can't see you…"
Piers glanced up.
"She's asking if you're there. Says she can't see you."
The old man's face crumpled.
"I—I can hear her, Young Master," he said, voice thick. He wiped at his non-existent nose with the sleeve of his robe, making it worse.
Piers grimaced. "Eugh."
Still gripping the bottle, he looked at the yokai's unmoving corpse. Then the ghost. Then the glowing container again.
His heart thudded.
I bound a soul.
He hadn't just banished it. He hadn't destroyed it.
He'd given it a new vessel. A new existence.
This is necromancy. Kind of. But… different.
A thrill surged—part fear, part wonder. His fingers curled instinctively around the bottle.
I want to try this again.
* * *