The silence after the yokai's death didn't last long.
From the shadows at the far end of the cavern came a sound—slow, grating. Metal dragging across stone.
Piers' head snapped toward it, his grip tightening on the milk bottle.
Ghost's jovial mood vanished instantly. His spectral form flickered, dimming.
"Young Master…" His voice dropped to an urgent whisper. "Do not move. When I say 'run'—run toward the gate. Do you understand?"
Piers nodded once, eyes locked on the darkness.
Something emerged.
A figure. Shuffling forward with a heavy, uneven gait—movements jerky, rhythm all wrong.
A knight.
Or what was left of one.
Rust covered every inch of its armor like a disease. Strips of decaying flesh clung to exposed joints where the metal had corroded away. Its helmet was cracked down the middle, revealing only darkness inside.
A zombie knight.
It moved with the terrible patience of something that didn't need to hurry.
Because its prey had nowhere to go.
Piers stood frozen, watching it approach.
His heart hammered. His fingers went numb around the bottle.
The girl inside fell silent, sensing the danger.
[NULL SYSTEM - ALERT]
[UNDEAD ENTITY DETECTED]
[THREAT LEVEL: HIGH]
[RECOMMENDATION: RETREAT IMMEDIATELY]
[EMOTIONAL RESPONSE: FEAR (ESCALATING)]
The zombie's helm turned slowly—searching, hunting, sensing.
And then—
The bottle in Piers' hand began to glow brighter. the girl screamed.
A high-pitched, terrified shriek that burst from the bottle like breaking glass.
The zombie reacted instantly.
Its shambling turned into a lunge—startlingly fast, predator-quick.
"RUN, YOUNG MASTER—NOW!"
Piers threw himself sideways, barely avoiding the rusted sword as it whistled past his face.
He stumbled, caught himself, heart hammering.
Okay. Okay. It's fast but I can—
"I can use my skill on this thing," he muttered, forcing his voice steady. "Same as before. Just—"
He raised his free hand, reaching for his mana, preparing to replicate whatever the hell he'd done to the yokai—
The zombie struck.
Not from the front.
With a grotesque, impossible twist, it reversed its grip and thrust the sword backward—right through Piers' outstretched forearm.
The blade punched clean through.
Piers blinked. His hand hit the floor with a wet thud. Fingers twitching. Blood pooling. For a second, he just stared flat at it. His hand. On the ground. Separate from his body.
"Huh, That's...inconvenient."
No pain. Just... pressure.
The awareness that something was missing.
[NULL SYSTEM - CRITICAL ALERT]
[SEVERE INJURY DETECTED]
[LIMB SEVERED: RIGHT FOREARM]
[REGENERATION: ACTIVE - ESTIMATED TIME: 2 MINUTES]
[BLOOD LOSS: MODERATE]
[EMOTIONAL RESPONSE: SHOCK (SUPPRESSED)]
From the bottle came a choked sound.
"Master...?" Melia's voice was small. Trembling. "Your arm... I—I felt something. What happened? Are you hurt?"
She couldn't see. Couldn't know.
But she could feel it—the sudden spike of pain, the shock radiating through him even if he couldn't process it properly.
The ghost appeared beside him, translucent face twisted in horror.
"Young master! Your arm—we must—you need to—"
The zombie pulled its sword free from the ground where it had lodged after passing through Piers' arm.
Turned toward him again.
Raised the blade.
Piers looked down at his stump.
Blood was already slowing. Flesh beginning to knit at the edges—painfully slow compared to the small cuts, but moving.
Two minutes, the system said.
The zombie took a step forward.
I don't have two minutes.
The stump at the end of his arm twitched.
Piers watched, detached, as flesh began to writhe beneath the skin—muscles squirming like worms, tendons reaching out blindly, searching for what they'd lost.
Bone creaked. Extended. Growing millimeter by millimeter.
Slow.
Too slow.
The zombie raised its sword, preparing to finish him.
The ghost appeared between them, arms spread wide—useless, incorporeal, but trying.
"Young sir, RUN! I'll—I'll distract it somehow—"
Piers' eyes never left his regenerating arm.
Come on. Come on.
Fingers began forming at the end of the stump—skeletal first, then wrapped in stringy muscle, then skin.
The zombie stepped forward, sword raised.
Not fast enough.
Piers stumbled backward, clutching the milk bottle to his chest with his remaining hand, eyes darting between the approaching undead and his slowly rebuilding arm.
Think. THINK.
And then he saw it.
A splash of milk on the ground—spilled when Melia had screamed earlier—right where the zombie had stepped.
The creature's foot had touched it.
And where the milk touched the corroded metal, the zombie had hesitated. Just for a split second. A twitch. A flinch.
Like it had stepped on something that burned.
Piers' eyes widened.
The milk.
Not just a vessel for souls.
Something more.
His gaze snapped to the bottle in his hand—still glowing faintly, Melia's soul pulsing inside.
The zombie took another step.
His regenerating hand flexed—three fingers now, almost complete, still slick with blood.
Not enough time.
He looked at the bottle.
Looked at the zombie.
Worth a shot.
"Melia," he said quickly, voice tight. "I need you to trust me."
"M-Master? What are you—"
"This might feel weird. but no other choice."
He angled the bottle toward the zombie, fingers wrapped around the glass, thumb positioned over the opening.
The zombie lunged.
Piers squeezed the bottle—not crushing, but applying pressure—and shook it hard.
Milk sprayed outward in a pressurized stream, droplets scattering through the air.
"Eeeek! Master, what are you—it's all shaky—I'm gonna—"
The milk hit the zombie's helm.
For a moment, nothing happened.
The creature kept coming, sword raised—
Then it shrieked.
A horrible, grinding sound—metal on metal, nails on slate, something that shouldn't have vocal cords screaming.
Where the milk touched, the armor began to smoke. Not burning—dissolving. The rust peeling away in wet, blackened chunks.
The zombie staggered backward, movements jerking, spasming.
Piers squeezed again. Another spray.
This time, he aimed for the cracked helmet.
The milk splattered across the opening, seeping inside.
The shriek became deafening.
The zombie collapsed to its knees, clawing at its own helm, trying to tear it off.
A wet, peeling noise. Like flesh sloughing off metal.
And then—
Silence.
The creature went still.
From inside the armor, something began to rise.
A soul. Frail. Corrupted. Barely recognizable as human anymore—more like smoke given vague shape.
It hovered above the empty shell for a moment, trembling.
Then it drifted upward—toward the cavern ceiling—and dispersed like mist.
The armor clattered to the ground.
Empty.
Lifeless.
[NULL SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]
[UNDEAD ENTITY: PURIFIED]
[METHOD: SOUL-INFUSED MILK (UNCONVENTIONAL)]
[HYPOTHESIS: HOLY/PURE ESSENCE FROM BOUND SOUL AFFECTS UNDEAD]
[VOID CORRUPTION: 38% → 37%]
[EMOTIONAL RESPONSES DETECTED:]
Fear (overcome through action)
Desperation (problem-solving under pressure)
[CURRENT CORRUPTION: 37%]
Piers stood there, breathing hard, his regenerated hand—now complete—gripping the milk bottle so tightly the glass creaked.
Blood dried on his arm. Milk dripped from his fingers.
The scent of burnt decay hung in the air.
He stared at the empty armor.
Then at the bottle.
Then at his newly regrown hand.
"I just..." His voice came out shaky. "I just killed a zombie knight. With milk."
"You did it, Master!" Melia's voice burst from the bottle, high and excited. "You did it! That was—that was amazing! Did you feel that? The bad thing just—poof!—and it's gone!"
The ghost materialized beside him, staring at Piers with something between awe and disbelief.
"Young sir." His voice was faint. "Your arm. You—it was severed—and now it's—"
He gestured helplessly at Piers' fully functional hand.
"How is that—what are you?"
Piers looked down at his hand. Flexed it. Watched the fingers move, the tendons shift beneath skin that looked like it had never been cut.
"I don't know," he said quietly.
And for once, he meant it.
He didn't know what he was anymore.
A reincarnated soul with infinite mana. A three-year-old who could bind souls to milk bottles. A child who could regrow limbs and kill the undead with dairy products.
What am I?
"Master?" Melia's voice was softer now. Worried. "Are you okay? You sound... sad."
Piers blinked.
Was he sad?
He checked internally, probing at the feeling.
Not sad. Not exactly.
Just... tired. Overwhelmed. Confused.
But also...
Alive.
More alive than he'd felt in years.
"I'm fine," he said finally, and this time, it wasn't a calculated response.
It was true.
The ghost drifted closer, still staring at the fallen armor.
"That was... remarkable, young sir. Truly. Though I confess..." He glanced at the milk bottle. "I had not anticipated that milk, of all things, would prove lethal to the undead."
Piers looked at the bottle. At Melia's faint glow inside.
"Me neither," he admitted.
A pause.
Then, from the bottle: "Does this mean I'm a weapon now?"
Piers blinked.
"...I guess?"
"COOL!" Melia's enthusiasm was palpable even through glass. "I've always wanted to be a weapon! Well, not always, but—you know—it sounds exciting!"
The ghost made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
"My daughter. A weapon. Made of milk." He shook his head. "The world has grown strange indeed."
Piers stood there—battered, bloody, holding a weaponized milk bottle containing an enthusiastic teenage soul—and despite everything...
He smiled.
Small. Crooked. Real.
"Yeah," he murmured. "It really has."