Burning crimson motes drifted through the warehouse, swirling like fireflies. The brilliant scarlet light that had blazed along Black's sword blade scattered at his words, splitting into ten glowing orbs that hovered above the rafters. The temperature plummeted in an instant, draining the warehouse of its meager warmth. In its place hung a cold, damp chill—the same stagnant air that clung to ancient tombs.
"Your vessels have arrived," Black said, sheathing his sword with a soft *click*. He glanced up at the crimson spheres circling overhead. "The rest is up to you."
At the sound of his voice, the drifting orbs scattered, darting across the warehouse in a dizzying dance before pausing mid-air, as if in silent consultation. A heartbeat later, the ten glowing spheres streaked downward like shooting stars, plunging straight into the ten young girls' corpses scattered across the floor—and vanishing without a trace.
Black shrugged, then pulled a wooden chair over to the table and sat down.
"A cup of tea would be perfect right about now," he muttered—the only complaint he made. Then he closed his eyes and waited.
Time passed, unmeasured and endless.
When the first faint rays of dawn filtered through the cracks in the warehouse's wooden planks, the girls opened their eyes.
Their once-pale skin now glowed with the flush of life. Their dull, glassy eyes had regained a bright, vivid spark—sharp, alert, and undeniably alive. The girls stirred, their movements awkward at first, like newborn foals finding their legs. They rose slowly to their feet, glancing at each other—and breaking into grins of mischief and delight.
"Whoa, Lottie—your chest is *tiny*! You totally lied about how big it was!"
"Charlotte, I thought you said you wanted a little girl's body! Why'd you pick one this curvy?"
"Alia's the lucky one—her skin's so smooth, it's like a baby's! Ugh, I'm jealous!"
Though they had been strangers in life—women of different classes, different worlds—they now chatted like lifelong friends, giggling as they compared their new bodies and struck playful poses. In that moment, they shone with the unbridled joy of being alive.
Leaning back in his chair, Black watched the girls frolic with a faint smile playing on his lips.
For while their bodies remained unchanged, their souls were an entirely different matter. The beings now inhabiting these fresh, living flesh-and-blood vessels were the restless spirits Black had brought with him from his castle.
As spirits bound by ancient magic, they could not leave the castle grounds of their own free will. But Black, who wielded the power to command souls and had forged a master-servant pact with them, could easily carry them beyond the castle's borders. He had done so for one simple reason: to fulfill Ophelia's request, he needed ten servants—well-trained, impeccably mannered, and utterly loyal.
This was no small order. While he *could* have bought slaves at the market, it would have cost a fortune—and invited endless trouble. The slave markets were filled with two types of people: the poor, broken souls crushed by poverty or war, and the fallen nobles who had lost everything in political strife. Few of the latter would ever truly submit to their new masters. And even if they *did*, no noble would tolerate seeing their defeated enemies rise to power in another man's household.
Besides, Black did not trust slaves. Forging loyalty was a tedious, time-consuming affair—and he had no time to waste on such trivialities.
Using his own subordinates was far safer. These spirits had been handpicked by the necromancers long ago, groomed to serve as his attendants. They had received rigorous training in etiquette and decorum; they would never embarrass him.
Of course, this second chance at life came at a price.
Unlike the spirit warriors like Jody—who anchored their essence to inorganic objects like armor, drawing strength from the soul energy around them to solidify their forms—these spirits now bound to human bodies could not siphon such power. Armor, after all, was inanimate; it required no sustenance, no energy to sustain itself. It was like an eggshell, protecting the life within and drawing nourishment from the world outside to help it hatch into something new.
Human bodies were not so forgiving. Though the spirits had gained physical form far sooner than the spirit warriors, they faced countless limitations. Unlike armor, a human body needed food and water to keep its heart beating, its blood flowing, its organs functioning. The spirits possessed a vitality far greater than any mortal's—they could heal broken bones and damaged organs as long as the body remained intact. But even so, they still needed sustenance to survive.
This meant that the spirits bound to these corpses had lost most of their supernatural powers. They were no longer *spirits*—they were *human*. They could no longer devour souls to replenish their strength; they had to eat and drink like any ordinary person. They had also lost the immense power they once wielded as spirits. While many of them had been fearsome warriors in their past lives, their new, fragile human bodies restricted their abilities. They could train their flesh to become stronger, faster—but they would never recover the godlike power of their spirit forms, nor would they heal as quickly as the spirit warriors anchored to armor.
This was why Black had carefully chosen spirits who specialized in skill rather than raw power. Their agility, their precision, their mastery of combat techniques—these would translate perfectly to their new human bodies. It was a compromise, yes—but a necessary one. So many spirits had longed for a chance to walk the earth again as humans; if Black had denied them this opportunity, he would have faced a rebellion.
If there was one advantage these reborn spirits held over ordinary humans, it was their retained spiritual senses. They could still see the auras of other souls, gauge the strength of their enemies, and communicate with one another telepathically. Most importantly, thanks to the dark necromantic magic that bound them, even if their human bodies died, their souls would not return to the River of Souls. Instead, they would linger in the mortal realm, waiting for Black to grant them new vessels—or to resume their existence as restless spirits.
Of course, any power they had gained in their human forms would vanish along with their bodies.
After their brief bout of playful chatter, the girls quickly lined up in neat formation, standing at attention before Black. Their eyes blazed with eagerness and gratitude as they looked up at their master, chests puffed out proudly, awaiting his inspection.
"Well?" Black asked, rising to his feet with a smile. "How does it feel to be alive again?"
"Wonderful, Master!" a girl with bright golden hair stepped forward, clearly the leader of the group. "I can't remember the last time I breathed air this fresh. None of us feel any discomfort—we're all in perfect condition!"
"Excellent," Black nodded. He paused, thinking for a moment, then smiled. "Then go change your clothes. We depart at once. I can already imagine Ophelia's face when she sees you… don't disappoint me, alright?"
He nodded toward the bundles in the back of the carriage. He had ordered the Gerry brothers to prepare clothes for the "corpses," and it seemed they had done a thorough job—there were dresses, undergarments, even shoes, all neatly packed. Though the girls had been reborn, they could hardly wander the streets in their burial shrouds. Black had planned for every detail.
"Make yourselves look beautiful," he said. "Don't make me regret bringing you back."
"Never, Master!" the girls chorused, grinning from ear to ear. They puffed out their chests, their voices ringing with pride and determination.
"We will *never* disappoint you!"