From Corpse to Crown: Reborn as a Mortician in Another World-Chapter 105: The Harmony They Chose

For the second day of their stay, Lucian and Alice discovered Austmark rose early. Bells chimed clear at dawn, not for worship, but to start another scheduled day.

Lucian and Alice stood near the town square as a procession formed—the weekly "Harmony Walk," a ritualized affirmation of communal duty.

Citizens marched in silence, each holding an object symbolizing their job: a smith with a horseshoe, a seamstress with folded cloth, a teacher with a small chalkboard. Children carried small tools of imitation, learning their futures before they understood the shape of choice.

Lucian’s brow furrowed as he watched. "They act like priests honoring sacred relics."

Alice murmured, "But it isn’t worship. It’s surrender."

The procession ended at a raised platform where a councilor recited from a scroll: "We gave our dreams to the earth so that others might eat, rest, and thrive. This is our chosen peace."

Lucian whispered, more to himself than anyone, "This isn’t peace. It’s embalmed obedience."

Mayor Prescott invited them to tea that afternoon. He welcomed them into a modest stone house near the village hall, its walls lined with scrolls and weathered maps. The smell of pine resin clung to his robes.

"I imagine you have questions," Prescott said, pouring tea with deliberate care. His wooden hands creaked slightly.

Lucian accepted a cup and glanced to Alice. "Austmark is... unusual."

The mayor chuckled. "It’s stable. That’s more than most places can say. After the Collapse, when undead flooded the plains and magic grew erratic, we needed structure. So we chose jobs that would ensure survival, not satisfaction."

Alice tilted her head. "And the dreams?"

Prescott paused. "At first, people gave them up willingly. But later, some clung to art, song, wandering. Those people... they made others long for what they couldn’t have. So, we chose silence. Grief was a luxury we couldn’t afford."

Lucian stared into his tea. The steam twisted like smoke over old ash.

Alice walked alone that evening and found a sunken amphitheater at the village’s edge. Moss and ivy overgrew the benches, and vines hung like curtains across a cracked stage. At its center, a plaque read: Let no one suffer for song.

She sat on a broken column and hummed quietly.

A small voice startled her. "You’re not allowed to do that."

A child stood nearby, clutching a wooden tray of soil samples. Her face was pale, earnest.

Alice smiled gently. "Why not?"

"Because it makes people remember," the girl whispered. "They say that’s dangerous."

Alice nodded slowly. Dangerous to whom?

In a narrow shop tucked between a cobbler and a wellkeeper, Lucian found an assortment of tools behind glass. He leaned in, eyes catching the curve of a familiar instrument—an embalming tool, dulled with age.

"Used to be more of you," the shopkeeper said as he approached. "I keep it for memory’s sake. Not many remember what it does."

Lucian purchased it without a word. He slid the tool into a hidden slot in his satchel. Holding it felt like reclaiming an old language he’d forgotten he spoke.

Outside, he exhaled slowly. Not many remember. But I do.

That night, Lucian wrote in his Grimoire by lanternlight. I see why they chose this. But I can’t choose it for myself. He paused, then added: Niko would have lit a candle, not extinguished it.

The ink shimmered and settled into the page.

Alice returned to the blacksmith’s forge. The man greeted her with a nod, eyes rimmed with soot. He handed her a small folded paper.

"Told the kid to give you this. Didn’t want to risk anyone else seeing."

She unfolded it. A poem, etched in tight script. It described a hammer that still dreamed of feathers.

"You wrote this," she said softly.

"It’s all I can write anymore," he said. "Steel curves better when I think of verse."

She left him a polished stone in the shape of a quill. "Keep writing. Even if it’s only in iron."

Lucian accepted a request to embalm a woman who had passed the night before. Her children—two boys and a girl—stood nearby, uncertain.

The mother’s hands were curled in stiffness. Lucian worked gently, softening tissue, coaxing the fingers into rest. As he did, muscle memory returned. Niko’s hum surfaced in his throat without thinking.

The Grimoire at his side glowed faintly.

When he finished, he stepped back. The children touched their mother’s hands, one pressing their forehead to her palm.

Lucian lingered. He did not retreat to shadows.

Later, he spoke to the family directly. "She’s still part of you. Not gone—just somewhere else."

The father wept openly. "Thank you," he said, voice cracking.

Alice watched from the door. Her eyes shone.

A woman came the next day, knocking on Lucian’s temporary lodgings. She carried a stained smock and a quiet hope.

"My brother," she said. "He used to paint. I want to remember him right. Can you help?"

Lucian nodded. He took the smock and laid it beside the man’s resting body. With slow gestures, he began a ritual of memory stitching.

Faintly, colors bloomed across the garment. Brush strokes returned like waking dreams.

"He used to paint joy," she whispered.

Alice was invited to attend a Harmony Council meeting. It took place in the town’s center hall, where order was rehearsed like performance.

Each member stepped forward, read their lines, and proposed new role rotations. No one spoke until the eldest councilor—a near-mummified elf—nodded once.

The meeting ended in a hymn: To sacrifice self is to uphold all.

Alice left with a strange chill in her bones. 𝚏𝕣𝐞𝗲𝐰𝕖𝐛𝐧𝕠𝕧𝚎𝚕.𝐜𝚘𝗺

Near dusk, Lucian heard muffled sobs behind the apothecary. He rounded the corner and saw a woman pressed against the wall, her knees pulled to her chest. A man loomed above her, voice sharp.

"You think you’re special because you still dream? We gave those up—for the good of all. Do you want to bring the chaos back?"

Lucian didn’t move. He stayed in the shadows. The man left. The woman wept.

He wanted to speak. But didn’t. Not yet.

That night, Lucian sat again with the Grimoire.

I remember Niko telling a family it was okay to cry. Back then, I thought silence was kinder. Now I know grief needs air.

The ink didn’t smudge. The Grimoire held the words like a vow.

In his sleep, Lucian dreamed.

He walked a long hallway of doors. Behind each, a memory waited: a song unsung, a canvas unfinished, a voice taken.

And for once, he walked through.