From the shadows came the slow, grating sound of metal dragging across stone.
A figure emerged from the shadows, shuffling with a heavy, uneven gait.
It was a knight — but barely recognizable as one.
Rust covered its armor, and strips of decaying flesh clung to its bones. Its movements were jerky, unnatural. A zombie knight.
The old man's spectral form flickered, his jovial mood vanishing in an instant.
He drifted closer to Piers, voice low and urgent:
"Young Master… do not move. When I say 'run' — run toward the gate."
Piers froze, hand tightening around the milk bottle.
The girl inside fell silent, sensing the danger.
The zombie knight creaked forward, its helm swiveling slowly — eyes unseen beneath, yet clearly searching.
**Then came the scream.
A high-pitched, terrified shriek from inside the bottle.
The zombie reacted instantly. Its shambling turned into a sudden, predator's lunge — startlingly fast.
The old man's voice rang out:
"Run, Young Master — NOW!"
Piers dodged on instinct, twisting aside as the knight's rusted sword whistled past his face.
"It's fine," he muttered, trying to stay calm.
"I just have to use my skill on this thing."
He raised his free hand, focusing mana — preparing for Soul Binding.
Then — the zombie struck.
Not from the front.
With a grotesque twist, it back-Thurst its sword — right through Piers' arm.
"Aghh—!"
His scream echoed through the cavern.
His hand hit the floor. Fingers twitching. Blood pooling.
"Damn… it hurts," Piers hissed, teeth clenched.
From the bottle came a choked, tearful cry. "M-Master… your arm… I'm sorry… I'm so sorry…"
Her tiny voice cracked, the glass trembling faintly with the sound of her sobs.
Then — nothing at first.**
But within seconds, the torn stump began to twitch. Muscles squirmed, tendons reached, bone creaked back into place. Slowly, painfully, his hand began to rebuild itself— and it was whole again.
Piers flexed his fingers, blood still slick on his skin.
"Alright. That'll do," he muttered, more annoyed than surprised.
Beside him watching regenration, old man gawked, mouth agape, eyes wide with disbelief.
But then piers noticed something else.
A splash of milk — spilled from the bottle — had struck the zombie's armor.
Wherever the liquid touched, the zombie twitched, recoiled.
Its movements became panicked, glitchy. Almost… afraid.
The milk.
Not just Soul Binding.
The milk itself was doing something.
Piers narrowed his eyes.
He gripped the bottle — no longer just a container. Now, a weapon.
With a sudden motion, he squeezed.
A stream of milk shot outward — spraying directly into the zombie's face.
"Eeeek! Master, slowly, please!" the girl squealed from the bottle, her voice equal parts panic and embarrassment.
The milk hit with a thwack.
No flinch. No sound.
Then — a wet, peeling sound.
Like flesh sloughing off metal.
The zombie knight faltered.
Its movements slowed… then stopped.
A remnant of a soul — frail, corrupted — peeled away from the corpse. It hovered a moment above the empty shell…
…and then vanished into the darkness above.
"The rusted armor clattered to the ground— lifeless. Empty."
Piers stood motionless, blood drying on his arm, the faint scent of burnt decay still hanging in the air.
The milk dripped slowly from his fingers, forming pale puddles against the dark stone.
He took a shaky breath. Then another. He was alive. Somehow.
He had defeated a zombie knight with… absolute milk.
"Y-You won, Master! The bad knight's gone!" the girl's tiny voice broke through the stillness.
The old man zipped in circles around him, glowing with excitement.
"Incredible, Young Master! You've vanquished the undead guardian!"
He hovered still for a moment, eyes wide.
"I must confess… I had not anticipated that milk, of all things, would prove effective against the undead."
"We did it, I knew you could!" the girl chirped.
Piers let out a breath, smiling faintly.
"Didn't think Mama's milk would be this useful."
The girl giggled—a sound like tiny silver bells.
"Mama's milk? Is that what you call it, Master? I like that!"
The old man chuckled, shaking his head. "A most… potent weapon, indeed."
Piers stood there—battered, bloody, glowing milk in hand—surrounded by a cheering ghost and a squeaky soul-girl trapped in a dairy.
And yet, somehow, he smiled.
He'd survived. He'd won.
But something told him… this was only the beginning.
And then, the ground began to tremble.
A low, guttural rumble echoed through the cavern.
Piers felt it first—like something more waking beneath his feet.
old man and the girl-bottle froze. The vibration deepened. A hum of doom in the stone.
The air turned thick. Heavy. Breathing became harder, like the cave itself was exhaling rot.
Then they saw it.
From the blackened depths beyond the glowing fungi, movement.
Dozens.
No—hundreds.
"A horde surged forward — a flood of snarling, rotting bodies, a tide of death crashing through the cave."
Zombified girls, their hollow eyes still holding a memory of laughter.
Men, their faces twisted into dried screams.
Old women with gaping jaws and broken teeth.
Children. Parents. Elders.
A mockery of life. A village turned into a nightmare.
The girl-bottle's voice cracked.
"Master… there are so many!"
The old man's ghost paled further, his flickering form growing erratic.
"What… what is this…?" he whispered. "This isn't natural."
The girl spoke again, urgent and afraid.
"We have to go, Master! Please—we have to leave!"
The old man nodded wildly.
"The entrance gate! Run now, before it's too late!"
They turned to Piers.
But he wasn't running.
Not this time. The undead kept coming—slithering, crawling, groaning, screaming. The cave shook with their numbers.
And Piers stood still.
His breath came slow.
His grip on the bottle tightened. He remembered the zombie knight. The severed hand.
The soul he saved. The light. The milk.
He looked at the horde. Then at his trembling companions.
His voice was calm. Clear. Unyielding.
"Not this time."
A pause.
"I'm done running."
He stepped forward.
"I will fight."
He moved deliberately, placing himself between the horde and his companions — the old man and the girl-bottle. His allies.
With a quick motion, Piers unclipped a loop from his belt and gently slid girl bottle into place at his waist.
"Hang tight," he muttered.
Then he raised his hand.
closed his eyes.
Inside, he reached for the shimmer — that strange, inner thread of mana. It surged up from his core, coursing through his limbs. But this time, it didn't feel chaotic. It wasn't instinct.
It was purpose. He didn't just channel it. He shaped it.
Molded it.
Like remembering how to breathe.
The old man stared, silent, his ghostly jaw slack. The bottle at Piers' waist glowed erratically — her tiny voice gone quiet with awe.
Before them, energy gathered. A white sphere pulsed into existence, floating midair, swirling and humming. But it wasn't fire or water. It was milk.
A massive, superheated orb of glowing, magical milk.
It hovered like a second sun in the cavern, casting a warm, golden glow over the dark stone and the endless tide of the dead.
The air rippled around it, thick with mana and rising tension.
Piers opened his eyes.
His voice rang out — steady, resolute, fierce:
"Milk… Cannon!"
The words echoed through the chamber.
He hurled the glowing sphere forward.
It tore through the air like a comet — silent, blinding, unstoppable.
And when it struck the center of the horde, it didn't explode.
It erased.
No flames. No thunder.
Just an expanding wave of luminous milk, pure and radiant, sweeping through the undead.
It surged outward in a searing wave, covering the cavern in a tsunami of white. Decayed flesh hissed into vapor. Bones cracked, then disintegrated. The horde collapsed in on itself, drowned in hot dairy vengeance.
The stench of scorched meat filled the air, momentarily masked by the bizarrely sweet scent of steaming milk.
The zombies never even screamed.
When the wave receded, the battlefield was unrecognizable. Where once stood a legion of undead — now, only puddles. Foam. Bones. Steam curling along the walls like ghosts fleeing their second death.
Piers lowered his arm, gasping for breath. Mana sparked and faded from his fingers.
He had done it.
He had won.
Behind him, silence.
The old man hovered, eyes wide, his jaw still hanging open.
He blinked slowly — looked at Piers, then at the devastation, then back again — completely and utterly gobsmacked.
From the bottle strapped at Piers' waist came a tiny, shaky voice.
"…That was… hot milk?"
The old man croaked, "…Young Master… what… in all the realms… was that?"
Piers, still panting, glanced down at the bottle on his belt.
Then at the battlefield.
Then back at the bottle.
"…I might have just invented dairy necromancy."
A long silence followed.
Milk pooled in broken rivulets across the cavern floor. From above, thick droplets of condensed milk tapped steadily onto stone — a slow, surreal metronome to the aftermath.
Piers stood still, shoulders heaving, breath ragged.
"Y-Young Master…" the old man murmured, "I… I do not know what to say. Your power is beyond comprehension. To wield such force — and with milk, no less!"
Piers gave a weak smile and wiped sweat from his brow. "Yeah… well, like I said — never underestimate mama's milk."
The girl-bottle let out a soft giggle.
The old man nodded solemnly. "Indeed. Your mana is unlike any I've ever known. You carry something… old. Powerful. Maybe even sacred." His tone shifted, urgency rising.
"But we must leave this place. I fear that blast was only the beginning. The cave's defenses may go deeper still."
Piers nodded. "Yeah. Let's get out of here. I need a nap. A long one."
But as they turned to leave, Piers hesitated.
His eyes fell on the twisted heap of rusted armor — the remnants of the zombie knight. A strange thought tugged at his mind. He turned slowly back toward it.
"Hey, old man," his tone was casual. "Before we go… there's something I want to try."
The ghost blinked. "Another experiment, Young Master?"
Piers grinned. "Yeah. Quick one. Come here."
"The old man floated closer, wary. From the bottle at his side, the girl spoke with mounting nervousness. 'Master? What… are you planning?'"
Piers didn't answer. He picked up the breastplate. It was heavy, colder than expected.
"Okay," he said, standing again. "Here's the idea: I want to try Soul Binding. But instead of pulling a soul into a bottle or a stone… I want to fuse you with this."
Old man recoiled. "M-Merge me? With armor? But… but I am a spirit! I have no need for such… clunky mortal vessels!"
"Come on,"his eyes gleaming. Think of it as… a new experience. Besides," he added with a mischievous grin, "you'll look awesome."
The old man hesitated, his translucent form pulsing with uncertainty. He looked at the rusted metal, then at Piers — and sighed.
"…This is madness."
Piers winked. "Exactly."
He raised his free hand. Mana surged. His fingers glowed with pale, pulsing light. A familiar screen blinked into view before him —his blue holographic screen materialized before him once more
Unique Skill: Soul Binding
Description: This unique skill allows you to extract the soul from a single possessed or spirit-bound entity — including beings akin to yokai — and bind it to a suitable vessel or artifact. It specifically targets invasive entities within a host. This skill does not affect the truly living or unpossessed.
Use Skill?
Piers thought: Accept.
The screen flickered and shifted, presenting the next prompt:
Choose Object to Merge Soul With:
He looked at the old man. Then at the armor.
Let's see how this works.
He focused, channeling his intent into the rusted suit. A thin beam of mana shot from Piers' palm, enveloping the old man's spectral form and the corroded armor. Both shimmered… blurred… and then—
They merged.
The effect was… bizarre.
The armor began to twitch, then rise. Limbs jerked unnaturally. Metal groaned. The chestplate rattled like a ribcage. Slowly, the suit stood upright.
But something was off.
It had no head.
The helmet was missing. It was like an animated suit — empty above the collar.
The old man's voice echoed from the armor, tinny and distorted. "What… What has happened? I am… inside the metal? I can feel the rust?" He sounded confused. And vaguely offended.
Piers blinked. "Uh. Yeah. You're… kind of a headless knight now."
"…Whatt?!" the armor sputtered.
From the bottle, the girl's voice rang out, urgent and hopeful. "Father? Is that you?"
Old man froze. Then, softly, reverently:
A pause then,
"Yes, my Melia… It's me. It's really me."
Something shifted. Not in the air — in the space between. A resonance pulsed outward, connecting the two.
Piers unclipped the bottle girl from his belt and stepped closer, raising it with care.
Old man lifted one trembling gauntlet. Gently, reverently, Piers placed the bottle into his outstretched hand.
As soon as his armoured hand touched it, bottle girl flared — not blinding, but soft and golden, like a memory rekindled.
Then, slowly, awkwardly, he drew her close to his chest.
There was no face to smile, no eyes to tear up — and yet, the feeling was unmistakable.
In that moment, they saw each other, not as a metal shell and a glass container, but as father and daughter.
And they had found each other.
Piers stood quietly, deeply moved.
He realized he was witnessing something truly special, a testament to the enduring power of familial love.
* * *