From Corpse to Crown: Reborn as a Mortician in Another World-Chapter 35: Trying to Rebuild

Michael's workshop offered comfort and healing in different ways. The candles didn't hum like ritual glyphs—they only crackled softly. More than once, Lucian felt drawn to look into the flame. Sometimes he saw figures of people laughing, but when he tried to get a closer look, the visions disappeared.

"Ah," Michael said softly. "These let you see glimpses of your past. I made them when I was new to candlemaking."

"I shouldn't feel surprised," Lucian replied as he tied another label onto a jar. "But so many people said you designed the most beautiful candles they'd ever seen."

The Tallowman smiled and in the soft glow, Lucian suddenly saw how much wax stuck to his clothes and hair. "I chose to perfect my craft. I thought you'd understand that by now, Lord Mortician. It's all you ever talk about."

Lucian felt a little silly after that, embarrassment coloring his pale cheeks. "Thanks for reminding me. Everyone starts somewhere."

+

He continued observing the candles and when the wax pooled, it smelled of honey and salt. Lucian sat at the back of Michael's workshop, away from the black-curtained windows and surrounded by drying wicks and old copper tools. A thick stack of borrowed tomes from Gethra's archive was stacked beside him.

His cane was leaning against a nearby chest of drawers. After he cut the wicks and tied labels on the candles, Lucian transcribed field rites. He didn't use ink from the Grimoire, but with charcoal and prayer.

Each book felt weighed down by memories with the edges smudged. None of them were formal, stamped, or sealed. Every rite was messy, emotional, and revised by hand. They felt real.

Just like how he always assumed Michael had been an expert candlemaker, Atraeum gave him the impression all morticians were perfectly polished—because they learned from a mentor.

And he didn't have any.

He concentrated on reading the book in front of him instead of feeling the cards were stacked against him. There were doodles alongside prayers in the margins and corrections were written in grief.

Lucian flipped to a page titled:

"Alternative Soul Anchoring for Collapse-State Hosts."

In the margin, someone had scribbled: "There's no right way to do this. Only loving ones."

He traced the sentence with his fingertip. It felt like something Rosa would have said, if she were still Rosa.

The Grimoire sat beside him, unopened.

It hadn't issued orders in days.

Now, it hovered like a quiet animal — watching, but letting him lead.

When he finally opened it, it didn't offer pages.

It waited.

Lucian took one of the field logs and laid it over the Grimoire. The candlelight shimmered green for a moment, like the Grimoire was... tasting it.

A pulse of ink spilled across the page:

"Cross-pollination pattern initiated. Field Rites acknowledged."

Lucian exhaled slowly.

It was working.

But it didn't feel like magic. It felt like teaching a language you were still learning to speak.

+

Lucy brought a bundle of letters late that morning, wrapped in waxed cloth and smelling faintly of honey and ash.

Lucian recognized the script immediately: Staesis.

One was from a former loop-breaker who now ran a garden beside the mausoleum.

"Thank you for ringing the bell," it read. "I didn't remember my husband's name until I cried."

Another was from a child who wrote phonetically. It simply said:

"The ghosts stop hiding when you draw circles."

Lucian folded that one gently and tucked it in the Grimoire.

Not all were kind.

One bore Atraeum's seal.

"Mortician Bowcott: You are being watched. The rites you alter are not sanctioned. Any spiritual failures incurred are your responsibility."

Lucian scoffed.

Another letter, unsigned but familiar in its simplicity, had been slipped under his tea mug earlier that day. The parchment was raw, handmade, and the ink ran in loops.

"The bell was meant to stay silent. But we understand why you rang it."

—The Brothers of the Chapel

+

As the daylight bled into evening, Lucian swept wax shavings into a jar. Michael passed by and paused beside his worktable, taking in all of the books amongst the candles and jars.

"You make more notes than candles."

Lucian chuckled. "I make candles during my breaks. They both melt in the end, don't they?"

Michael leaned against the wall, dusting his sleeves.

"You know, Mima took home a lemon once. She dropped it in my lap while I wrote in my journal. That was how I discovered you could use it as invisible ink." To demonstrate his point, Michael reached for a journal wrapped in wax-stained leather.

When he opened its pages, they were completely blank and the book smelled like lemons. Using a candle, Michael carefully held the book above its flame. Some pages had brown text, and the others were completely invisible.

"I recorded my own runes and rites here. Some of them worked, and I used them to make better candles. The ones that didn't work...remains a secret. Between me and Mima."

Lucian laughed. "She was a very smart cat."

Michael smiled. "She was. Still is," he said quickly, when he heard a loud protesting meow. "We know you're still here!"

The giant ghost of a bear cat sniffed as she slept in a red cat bed, her form perfectly fitting inside.

+

That night, Lucian finally attempted his own rite.

He lit three candles — one of Michael's blue votives, one druidic taper from Merry's basket, and one plain wax cylinder from Staesis, stamped with civic approval.

He arranged them in a triangle.

In the center, he wrote:

Farewell with Living Soil

For those who left nothing behind but memory. For those not buried, but rooted.

He wrote the rite by feel. It began with breath, ended with silence, and had no command words.

Only an invitation. ƒгeeweɓn૦vel.com

He burned a letter from a nameless soul — one that simply read:

"Please, let me be remembered kindly."

The air stirred.

Something unseen exhaled.

The candles danced — not in recognition, but agreement.

Lucian whispered, "Did you feel that?"

Alice, sitting in the corner tracing letters on her wrist, looked up.

"It didn't hurt," she said softly. "That's new."

The Grimoire flared green at dawn.

A new page turned on its own.

[Rite Recorded: Seed-Sown Farewell]

Integrated from field rite. Emotional layering: appropriate.

Status: User-written. Anchor achieved.

Note: The Queen may review your rights as Mortician of Atraeum. But you are worthy still.

Lucian closed his eyes.

It was the first time in days he'd felt affirmed, rather than guided or threatened.

He didn't know if it was pride or pain.

He simply let the page cool beneath his palm.

+

The next afternoon, Michael answered a knock and returned with a parcel of fresh bread and a folded slip of parchment, tucked beside a sprig of wild fennel.

Lucian opened it.

The handwriting was familiar now — strong, soft, a little wild:

"Your rites are kind. But they're loud.

Try not to pull too hard on the land without listening first."

—Merry

Lucian smiled, then frowned as the Grimoire scribbled in a new line:

Field Contributor Acknowledged.

Thread-Class Compatibility: High.

Rite-Bond Strength: Stable.

The last word made his breath catch.

Stable.

He hadn't felt that in weeks.

That night, he burned a candle not for the dead — but for Rosa.

He wrote her name in smoke and watched it curl.

Alice sat beside him, quiet, eyes distant.

"Did she dream?" she asked.

Lucian hesitated. "Yes. But only when she thought no one was watching."

"Am I allowed to miss her?"

"Of course."

"Even if I'm... what came after?"

Lucian took her hand gently.

"Especially then."