From Corpse to Crown: Reborn as a Mortician in Another World-Chapter 93: The Weight of False Peace

When Lucian stepped into spiral ring eight, the world blinked.

There was no wind.

No rite.

No warning.

One breath he was watching the stone shift beneath his feet—

The next, he was home.

The kitchen smelled like apple pie and lemon.

Morning light poured across the marble counter, warming his fingers as he reached for a teacup.

"Are you going to stare at it all morning?" came a voice from behind.

Lucian turned, and there she was.

Camellia.

She laughed as she adjusted a potted herb on the sill. Her braid was loose. Her apron stained with flour.

"You’re not really going to skip breakfast again, are you?"

Lucian froze.

This must be the summer before I moved closer to the funeral home.

He hadn’t seen her face in years.

Even if he hadn’t sacrificed the memory, he’d forgotten it entirely.

But here... it was clear as glass.

He felt the warmth of her shoulder as she brushed past. Heard the squeal of the kettle. All the small details memory tends to blur.

"You shouldn’t have traded me away," she said suddenly, softly.

Lucian blinked. "What?"

She didn’t look at him. "You tried to save that dead girl."

Her fingers brushed the Loom case at his hip.

"Even now... it followed you, didn’t it?"

He wandered through the sunlit hallway of their "home," fingertips grazing the bookshelf. Everything was too sharp. Too perfect.

His hand paused on a letter tucked into a book on funerary rites. Sealed with wax. A raven clutching a bony hand—his crest.

He opened it slowly.

My dearest Lucian,

I hope this letter finds you before the forgetting sets in.

I know you’ll lose me. You always did things that cost you parts of yourself.

Lucian swallowed hard.

But if you must trade me again—then please, bury me properly this time. Don’t just walk away.

When he blinked, the letter was blank.

Elsewhere, Alice walked beneath rows of painted lanterns.

She was twelve again, back in the capital’s upper markets. Her mother’s hand was warm in hers. The threads that bound them felt strong.

"There, that one," Alice said, pointing at a lavender lantern shaped like a lily.

Her mother laughed and bought it without hesitation.

"I want to guide souls one day," little Alice said. "I want to help people rest."

Her mother crouched down, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

"You will. You’ll be better than I ever was."

The warmth of that praise cut like glass.

Then, her mother’s porcelain face cracked. A twisted smile split her lips.

"Why haven’t you taken the Oath yet, Alice?"

Alice stepped back.

"You’re not real."

"Because if you were strong enough, they wouldn’t be dying again, would they?"

The lanterns above flared blood-red.

The market square shifted.

Now she was kneeling before a lacquered tea table, cherry blossoms falling around her like snow.

Her mother sat across from her, smiling. They prepared a soul-anchoring tea for grieving clients.

"Let the water remember," her mother said.

Alice poured the tea.

But in the cup—it wasn’t tea.

It was ink. Shifting. Showing faces she couldn’t name. All screaming.

Her mother didn’t notice. She just smiled.

"You’re doing beautifully, darling."

Alice looked again.

Now her hands were old.

Weathered.

Callused from rites she hadn’t yet learned.

The wind smelled like blood and thread smoke.

The cobblestones below her crumbled into ash.

The scene melted.

Lucian and Alice sat at a long dining table—Camellia to Lucian’s left, Alice’s "mother" to her right.

There was an incredible feast in front of them. Every dish was warm. The light was gentle, and the laughter came easy.

It should have been comforting.

But no one ate.

Every time Lucian lifted his fork to his lips, someone said something kind. It distracted him, and he set down his fork to reply.

Each time Alice reached for her cup, her mother asked for a favor.

The conversation looped.

Lucian noticed first—Camellia hadn’t blinked.

Neither had Alice’s mother.

Only their own hands were shaking.

Alice whispered, "This place doesn’t breathe."

Lucian looked at her. "Huh?"

The stitched doll looked at him. "No breeze. No birds. We have a feast, but there aren’t even flies. Even grief has insects. But this... it’s all sterile."

Lucian touched the table again.

Instead of warmth, it was cold.

Far too cold for a room this warm.

His Grimoire finally flared open:

[Thread Alert: Soulbound Reality Compromised]Warning: You are not dreaming. You are being shown a lie.

+

He wasn’t quite convinced yet. Lucian tried his best to ignore the kind comments and sliced through some ribs. The beef was tender and fell off the bone.

But when the beef touched his tongue, it melted into nothing. It looked and smelled like beef. He could even see the wisps of steam coming from the rice.

It was perfect, until he tasted it.

The ribs tasted very...muted. Like his tastebuds had been completely erased.

Something was very wrong indeed.

Not hungry. Not satisfied. Just... hollow.

Across the table, Alice blinked slowly. Her eyes were glazed. She wasn’t breathing.

Still alive. But fading.

Lucian’s gut twisted.

He reached for the butter knife.

Just a test, he thought. If this isn’t real, it won’t hurt.

He pressed it to his palm.

And drew it across the skin.

The illusion shuddered.

The lights flickered. The table buckled like wax.

Camellia’s face peeled—revealing thread-stitched muscle beneath.

Silverware twisted like melted clock hands.

Alice’s mother turned to face away—then kept turning, neck winding around her shoulders.

And the world began to whisper:

"You ruined it.""You ruined it.""You ruined it."

Not shouted. Just... disappointed.

Lucian turned.

+

Auren Valier sat at the head of the table.

He smiled faintly. His antlers cast shadows that stretched too far.

"Don’t rush to end this," he said. "There’s time for peace. Time to let grief sleep."

Flowers bloomed from the knots in his antlers.

"Isn’t this nicer than dying over and over again?"

They heard it—both of them.

"Mortician. Guide. Welcome to Vel Quen."

His voice layered—gentle and bitter.

"We had so many plans for the end. You are stepping through something you cannot comprehend. So I’ve let you wear your old skins... for a little while."

"I’m not your enemy. Rather, I’m your proof."

Lucian’s voice cracked. "This isn’t your city anymore!"

Auren’s eyes softened. "No."

He looked away.

"It’s no one’s. Because they asked me to keep it safe. And I did."

He placed a hand over his heart.

"I did."

With a slow breath, the flickering ceased.

Everything reset.

Camellia smiled again. The bread was warm. The air smelled like lemon and dust.

But now Auren Valier stood plainly at the head of the table. Not cloaked. Not hidden.

A velvet coat. Antique buttons. Antlers brushing the rafters.

He rolled up his sleeve, revealing thread-stitched veins that moved.

"You’re not the first to cut through it," he said. "But it is impolite, don’t you think?"

He stepped closer.

"You only make things harder when you don’t play along."

Lucian didn’t answer.

Auren reached out. The cut on Lucian’s hand vanished like mist. The pain, unmade.

"There," he said. "Neat. No harm done."

He crouched, eyes level.

"But remember, mortician—this place is held together by choices. Yours included."

"You chose to remember her. So I gave her back to you."

He smiled softly.

"Wouldn’t it be easier if you stayed?"

Alice stood now, trembling.

She held her mother’s hand—but it wasn’t warm.

It was paper.

When she squeezed, it crinkled. Fell apart like burnt lace.

Her mother kept smiling.

Alice whispered, "This place wants us to give up."

Lucian’s fingers closed around the Loom’s case.

"No," he said. "It wants us to forget what grief costs."

Auren sighed.

He snapped his fingers.

Reality began to rewind.

The dinner reassembled. The cut uncut. The paper mother whole again.

Laughter restarted.

But now, no one blinked.

Not even Alice or Lucian.

[Thread Warning – Memory Saturation Imminent]You will forget how to leave if you stay too long.

Auren said nothing more.

He simply returned to the head of the table.

And waited.

+

Below the Spiral

Far beneath Vel Quen, she heard voices.

Alive.

The paladin dragged herself upward through fractured stone, one hand bleeding, the other clutching a rusted banner tipped with silver.

She had no name now.

Only a title:

Oath-Tender of the Fifth Coil.

Her cracked lips whispered:

"If he’s done it again... I swear, I will break the weave itself."

A gust of wind met her for the first time in a century.

It carried laughter.

Alive. Real.

I have to keep going.

Hope rose in her chest like fire.

And she hadn’t felt hope in a long, long time.

+

Back in the illusion, Lucian turned toward the window and saw Alice standing in the garden—lost in a memory not her own.

Their reflections overlapped in the glass.

Behind them, Auren’s silhouette shimmered.

Antlers. Eyes full of uncut thread.

"If you want your truths," he said, "then take mine first."

"You’ll need to wear my grief."

The Grimoire pulsed.

[Thread Resonance: 73%]Warning: Shared Identity Shift Beginning...