"The old man's voice, low but clear, echoed through the armor.
"Thank you, Young Master. You have given us a gift beyond measure. My daughter and I... we are at last unbound."
From within the milk bottle, the girl's voice chimed in, warm and bright.
"We will never forget your kindness."
Piers stood there for a moment, letting the words pass through him.
"I'm just glad I could help."
The old man turned, the empty helm angling toward the mouth of the cave.
"It is time for us to leave. This place… it holds too many memories. Too much pain. We shall seek a place where we can rest."
With that, the headless figure began to walk, metal limbs groaning softly. Piers followed in silence, stepping out of the cavern and into the waiting forest.
He blinked.
No sunlight.
The sky was a deep, starless velvet. Cold air pressed against his skin. The moon hung high over the treetops—too large, too pale.
Midnight?
That made no sense.
He could feel a faint pressure in the air. Breathing took a little more effort than usual.
He glanced over. The knight and the bottle girl were slowing, their movements strained.
"What's wrong?" Piers murmured.
"Miasma," the old man said. His voice sounded tight through the armor. "It is everywhere. Before, as ghosts, we were untouched. But now—"
The armor staggered.
"—now that we wear form again, it is unbearable. It is killing us."
Piers frowned. He could feel pressure in the air, a sour weight—but his breathing was fine. His body moved normally.
He glanced down at his hands.
Mana stirred beneath his skin. Not summoned. Not conscious. Just there.
Something thin but firm surrounded him.
The miasma thickened around them.
"Master," the old man said urgently. "You must give us a name. It is the only way to anchor us—to grant us true form and resist this darkness. Without it…"
He paused.
"…we will perish."
Piers exhaled.
"A name," he muttered. Guess even the dead deserve one."
He rubbed his face.
"You're dying from toxic air, and the fix is… names."
A beat.
"Yeah. This world's logic is circling the drain."
He looked between them.
Okay. Think. Don't overdo it.
"If you're going to trust me with your existence," he said, voice flat, "you live with what I choose. No take-backs."
He straightened slightly.
"For the girl in the milk bottle… I name you Gyuunyuu."
Milk. Obvious. Fitting.
Then he turned.
"And you—your name is Mutou."
Headless. Simple. Accurate.
The shift was immediate.
A pale light gathered around them.
Rust peeled away from Mutou's armor, evaporating as the corroded plates slimmed into clean silver steel. The lines were simple, functional, dignified.
The sword at his side changed with the armor, rust fading into clean steel.
Where his head should have been, blue mana gathered into a soft, shifting wisp—expressive without features.
Mutou stood straighter.
Whole.
Gyuunyuu shimmered. The glass of her bottle softened, flexing into something tougher, more like enchanted crystal or durable plastic.
clearer. Inside, her features sharpened—bright eyes, flushed cheeks. Small limbs pressed faintly against the surface.
Then the bottle lifted.
She spun through the air, laughter ringing out.
"Master! I can fly! Wheee!"
Piers stared.
"Okay..."
"Young Master," Mutou said. His voice was no longer hollow.
"Your words… gave us a form. They gave us strength."
Gyuunyuu floated beside him, spinning in a lazy circle.
"We're in your debt, Master. Forever."
Piers scratched his head, eyes half-lidded, still blinking like he'd just woken from a strange dream.
"…Yeah, sure. That's… fine. No problem."
He glanced away, trying to suppress a small smile.
Did I really just power-up a flying milk sprite and a headless knight with names? Or was it the fallout from that zombie mess?
The forest around them pressed closer — but for now, within this circle of light, it couldn't touch them.
Something flickered in his vision.
Then, like ink on water, words began to form.
New Skills Unlocked:
Unique Skill: Appraisal
Skill: Modal Maker
Skill: Charisma
Unique Skill: Soul Puppet
Piers squinted.
"…That's not ominous at all."
He skimmed the list again.
"What… are these? And why do they sound like a shady gacha pull?"
His thoughts buzzed with half-baked theories:
Appraisal… sounds like I can analyze things.
Modal Maker? What, like switching forms or modes?
Charisma — okay, maybe I'll be more… Convincing?. And Soul Puppet?
He frowned.
… that sounds… creepy?
A sudden spark of inspiration lit his face — the kind of grin that made people slowly back away.
He turned toward Mutou and Gyuunyuu.
"Should I… test these on them?"
A truly wicked glint flashed in his eyes.
Mutou, standing tall and noble in his newly polished armor, froze — as if sensing the incoming disaster.
Gyuunyuu bobbed beside him, cheerfully unaware.
Piers rubbed his hands together, full mad-scientist mode engaged.
Oh yeah. You two are about to be my guinea pigs—
The thought hit a wall of exhaustion. His shoulders slumped.
"Ugh. No. I'm too damn tired for this."
He sighed and let it fade.
"Later. Definitely later."
Just as he turned to head home—
Mutou and Gyuunyuu knelt before him, their voices steady with unwavering conviction.
We pledge ourselves to your service, young Master,"
Mutou intoned, his smoky helm bowed low.
Gyuunyuu hovered at eye level, her voice bright but resolute. "We will protect you — and obey your will."
Piers took a step back, startled.
Whoa—hey, you really don't have to do that. I was just trying to help you find your way back, not sign up for some undead bodyguard contract.
They didn't move.
Oh.
Of course not.
This isn't how you make friends.
This is how you accidentally start a cult.
He looked at them—one headless knight, one floating milk sprite.
There goes my normal life.
"…Alright," he sighed. "If you really insist. But drop the 'Master' thing. I'm not running anything."
Gyuunyuu giggled and twirled. Mutou placed a fist over his chest.
With the matter settled—as if anything ever did.
Piers turned and began the long walk home.
Behind him, they remained in the moonlit forest—silent guardians, or at least very polite squatters.
As the path curled beneath his feet, reality caught up.
As the forest path curled beneath his feet, Piers's mind finally turned to the more practical consequences of his grand magical adventures.
Mom is going to explode, he realized grimly.
He glanced down at the dark stains on his clothes.
Maybe if I pretend it's paint?
He glanced down at the dark stains on his clothes.
Maybe if I pretend it's paint?
----------
The next day, Piers woke up in his cradle. Morning light filtered into the house, and the household was already stirring.
Chaos followed.
Styx was at the dining table, waging open war on her breakfast. Food flew everywhere—table, walls, floor. She cheered with every bite, face already smeared.
Nearby, Piers's father was engaged in a dangerous maneuver known as nap-eating. His face hovered inches above his plate, head bobbing with every snore. At any moment, a full forehead-first collision with gravy seemed inevitable.
Their mother, thankfully, was holding everything together. She worked at the sink, moving between tasks with practiced ease—the only thing keeping the household from collapsing entirely.
Piers, still half-asleep and having completely forgotten last night's ghost-fueled ordeal (and the state of his clothes), yawned. His small legs carried him down the stairs, one hand rubbing sleep from his eye.
In a soft, sleepy voice, he mumbled,
"Mama, I want milk, please."
Xylia froze.
The sound of his voice—of that word—made her breath catch. Her hands stilled mid-motion as she turned slowly toward him.
Tears welled in her eyes. She didn't move for a moment, just stared, her expression softening as a smile spread across her face.
Rigas startled awake at her sudden stillness. He blinked, disoriented, then followed her gaze.
"What is it? What's wrong?" he asked, concern creeping into his voice.
"Our boy," Xylia said, her voice shaking. "He spoke. He just said 'Mama.'"
Styx shot up so fast her chair nearly toppled. She dashed across the room and grabbed Piers's hands, eyes sparkling.
"Say it again, Piers! Say 'I love you, Oneesan'! Say it!"
Piers looked up at her, unimpressed and still very tired.
"…What is it, Neesan? First, I want milk."
Styx gasped—then squealed. She scooped him up in a crushing hug, spinning slightly.
"You heard that, right?! Mama! Papa! Piers said he loves me!"
As she shouted, she smeared her gravy-streaked cheek against Piers's face. He didn't react. He just sighed, resigned to whatever this was now.
As she did, gravy smeared across Piers's cheek. He didn't react. He just sighed, accepting his fate.
Xylia and Rigas hurried over, both stopping short as they took in the scene.
Their baby had spoken. Again.
Xylia knelt in front of Piers, brushing a gentle hand along his cheek.
"My sweet boy… you really said it," she whispered. "Mama."
Her voice cooed softly. "Can you say it again, darling? Say 'Mama'?"
Rigas lowered himself beside them and took Piers's small hand in his.
"That's my son," he said quietly, pride clear in his voice. "He's going to be a talker."
He grinned faintly.
"Say 'Papa,' Piers. Just once?"
Rigas didn't look away from Piers.
"I never thought a word could mean this much," his voice low.
Xylia leaned against his shoulder.
"I know, honey," she murmured. "It's everything."
They watched, their entire world reflected in one tiny, sleepy-eyed boy.
And then Xylia paused.
Her smile faded. Her brow furrowed as she leaned closer, drawn by a scent that didn't belong—sharp, metallic.
Her gaze dropped. Fingers trembling, she brushed against the dark, stiff fabric of Piers's clothes.
Then she saw it.
Blood.
Red, smeared and dried in streaks across his tiny tunic.
The warmth drained from her face. Her breath hitched. A shadow fell over her features as her bangs slipped forward, hiding her eyes.
The room went still.
And then—
Her voice.
Low. Steady. Icy.
"…Rigas."
Styx froze mid-motion, arms still outstretched toward Piers.
Rigas, still half-dazed from the warmth of the moment, caught sight of the blood."
His eyes shot to Xylia's trembling hand.
Then to her face.
Then back to Piers.
It hit him all at once.
His body stiffened. Sweat broke along his temple.
He knew that look.
He had seen Xylia furious.
He had seen her annoyed.
He had even seen her set a royal stable on fire once.
But this?
This was different.
This was the quiet before something broke.
Rigas swallowed. He moved slowly, carefully, reaching for her hand.
"Xylia… C-calm down, my love. Let's take a breath. There has to be a reason — look at him. He's… he's fine. Let's not jump to anything."
she didn't respond.
Her head tilted slightly toward him, eyes hidden under her bangs. Dark mana pressure pulsed faintly in the air.
Piers, staring at his mother's face, felt real fear tightening in his chest.
The warmth was gone.
What looked back at him felt distant. Unyielding.
Styx stood motionless, her grin wiped away, eyes darting between their parents.
Silence.
Piers shrank back, his lower lip trembling.
OH NO. CRAP. CRAP. Double crap.
I completly forgot to change!
His inner alarm bells rang like a goblin band on the march.
Mom's going berserk. I have to explain. I need something—anything—fast.
Summoning every ounce of baby charm he had, he looked up at Xylia with the most earnest expression he could muster. Tears welled in the corners of his eyes.
"Ma–Mama… I was h-helping a kitten… a tiny kitten… and… and that's where the blood came from…"
Silence.
Then—
The change was immediate.
Xylia's deadly aura… deflated. Like a balloon slowly losing air.
"Oh…"
She pulled him into her arms, holding him close.
Styx and Rigas blinked in unison, slack-jawed.
Neither had ever seen Xylia go that dark… or come back that fast.
"My sweet, brave baby boy," she whispered, kissing his cheeks. "Helping a kitten… of course you were."
She stood up cradling him.
"Mama will get you your milk, and then we'll get you all cleaned up and changed. We bought you so many new clothes, after all — we can't have you ruining them with blood!"
The terrifying presence from moments ago was gone, replaced by a giggling, doting mother.
Piers Buried against her shoulder, he let out a shaky breath.
Crisis averted.
As she turned to leave, Piers peeked over her shoulder and caught Rigas's eye.
He grinned and raised a tiny, smug thumbs-up.
Rigas blinked—then chuckled, returning it with a nod.
That's my boy.
Styx watched them go, head tilted, her expression caught somewhere between awe and confusion.
* * *