From Corpse to Crown: Reborn as a Mortician in Another World-Chapter 97: The Bell that Should Not Ring

The Oath-Tender led them deeper into the fifth chamber. And the longer they walked, the more life they saw. It was like the city above them was made from plywood.

This section looked like a silent library, full of books and thick carpeted floors. But when Lucian looked above them, there was no ceiling. Just the endless expanse of a frozen night sky.

And then they heard it—close to the core. A bell rang, and it echoed toward the surface.

Lucian dropped to one knee.

The sound didn’t strike like thunder, but his sorrow sank deep like a bone marrow at the bottom of a stew.

I know this feeling. It’s a funeral bell. The same ancient resonance. Lucian didn’t dare lift his eyes from the floor, not until the bell had stopped ringing.

Next to him, he heard the Grimoire flare open, its pages flipping madly. His gray eyes glanced down at the book and saw symbols--some for funerals, some for life--twist and glow.

What could this me--if Vel Quen has no people, but the bell’s rung, that means only one thing.

"They’re going to unfreeze soon."

When the words left his lips, the Loom shook in its case. He freed the Loom form its pouch and it grew to full height, next to the Grimoire. Its symbols sank into the thread, and he felt a new sensation at his fingertips.

The Grimoire grabbed the Loom’s thread and pulled, until red string was tied onto each of his fingers.

"Wha--" when he moved his left pinky finger, it pulled up a different section of Vel Quen.

Like his Echoheart Grimoire was projecting the image using the Loom thread as a conduit.

Beside him, Alice doubled over, her hand pressed to her chest.

"It’s too much," she whispered.

Instead of red thread, it was golden and flickered at her fingertips. But it wasn’t a steady and focused red like his.

It was wild and unfocused—she had introduced herself as a Guide. Now she was syncing too strongly with the city’s mourning threads.

Startlingly familiar to when Lucian followed one thread and saw everyone’s grief all at once.

"Try to imagine a camera, Alice," he told her gently. "I’m sure Rosa’s seen at least one. Focus on one thing instead of letting the memories climb over you."

He knew what she was experiencing, because he’d done it before. With one hand, he brought half of Vel Quen’s main square and saw everything.

People in windows, half-frozen and blinking. Families mid-hug, mid-fight, mid-tears. The echoes of a city that paused on a breath that never finished.

While she tried to focus on his instructions, a whisper curled in her ear:

"He promised us a stillness we could rest in."

Lucian grabbed her shoulder. "Alice!"

She blinked and clutched his hand, and they both realized—Vel Quen was watching them now.

No longer indifferent.

Now reactive.

+

In a sunken ritual space beneath the spiral’s core, Auren knelt before a large basin filled with wisps of memory. Now that the Paladin had taken Lucian and Alice deeper into the spiral, he needed guidance.

How do I keep my beloved Vel Quen intact when a mortician walks these halls? It’s only a matter of time before everyone wakes up.

And then what?

Everyone’s grief will resonate all at once.

The bell’s echo reached him like a nail driven through the spine.

He bled from one eye. Threadlight poured like ichor.

"You don’t know what you’re awakening, Lucian Bowcott."

Across the surface of the basin, the faces of Vel Quen shimmered—everyone he had tried to preserve. Smiling. Reaching. Dying.

He whispered, "I did what you asked."

Behind him, a statue of the founders loomed—thread-bound, unmoving.

"I kept them safe."

The statue remained silent.

The stone under his knees began to unrot in reverse, returning to the moment before it broke. A curse undone, a mistake relived.

Auren’s fingers trembled.

"If they can’t accept peace... I’ll force it."

But he flinched when he heard the second bell.

He turned sharply, eyes wide, and whispered, "No... not him."

A fragment of memory appeared in the basin, and Auren tried to keep his breathing even.

"Even if several centuries have passed, I still remember you." he said, voice heavy with sorrow and unshed tears.

It was a man with weathered hands, soft eyes, and a bellmaker’s apron. He smiled as he worked, tuning each chime to carry grief like a prayer. Auren, years younger, sat beside him.

"You can’t stop sorrow, child," the priest had said. "But you can guide it. That’s what the bell is for."

"You said you’d never ring it again," Auren whispered to the empty room.

"You promised you’d stay sealed."

But the sound had returned. And with it, the proof that even the city’s most sacred oaths could break.

Brother Andrew (his mentor, his compass) had been the one sacrifice Auren swore would not be in vain.

But now, even he stirred.

"Who will guide you, when I am not fit for that role? I don’t know how to guide anyone."

+

In a tall, narrow tower of bark-glass and silver spindles, the Queen of Thread stood over a map that twinkled in woven light.

Vel Quen pulsed red across its center.

"The paladin survived," the Spymaster said beside her, kneeling.

"She’s breached the spiral," the Queen murmured. "And so has the bell."

She reached into a sealed cabinet and pulled out a crystal-bound grimoire wrapped in bone ribbon. Her fingers hovered.

And the sealed page began writing on its own.

"He has remembered the wrong truth. Auren thinks stillness was mercy. But you gave him love, Abigail. Not all is lost."

"Do you intend to destroy them?" asked the Spymaster.

"I intend to save them," she said. "I failed this once already."

"And if they resist?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Then I’ll save who I can."

The tower trembled as the second bell toll reached them.

The Queen whispered, "Should I go?"

The grimoire’s page bled a thread into the air, weaving a symbol: a bell, a door, a split loom.

She trembled. "As you wish."

The Spymaster glanced at her. Abigail had been a powerful seamstress who rejected the Loom--the Spinnermaid had been chosen two years later. Unlike Marguerite, Queen Abigail didn’t need him.

Why would she, when her wish had been to rest with her queendom?

"What will I tell Marguerite?"

The Queen of Thread glanced at him, and said softly, "That her sister has returned."

+

Merry touched the roots of a dying tree as the second bell rang. Its pulse returned.

"The city’s breathing," she whispered. 𝕗𝐫𝚎𝗲𝘄𝐞𝕓𝐧𝕠𝘃𝕖𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝚖

Cadrel watched a nearby fountain ripple backward. Statues blinked.

"They’re not waking up," Merry said. "They’re being rewritten."

Cadrel glanced at the stirring citizens. "By who?"

"Wrong question," she said. "By what."

+

Alice wandered, unthinking.

The city pulled her now—toward the core.

She passed open doors and untouched altars. Teacups filled with ash. Rites left unfinished. Petals and tokens placed for a farewell that never came.

A child’s spirit appeared, arms outstretched.

Alice reached toward it—but the thread it offered burned her palm.

She gasped and stepped back.

"You’re not ready," the spirit whispered.

She wept, softly.

She turned, wiping her tears, and for a breathless moment thought she saw another figure further down the spiral—a woman cloaked in druidic black and thread-woven green.

Rosa.

Or what remained of her.

But Rosa didn’t step forward. She simply turned away and vanished through a door that hadn’t been open a moment before.

Alice felt the message clearly: Your path diverges here.

+

The Loom’s threads twisted—then showed Lucian a glimpse.

Auren.

Kneeling. Bleeding thread. Surrounded by memory.

His antlers were hollowing. His face was cracking like dry bark.

He wasn’t a villain.

He was appointed.

"Did you ever want to be this?" Lucian whispered. "Or were you just chosen to hold what broke?"

He felt no answer. But he felt pity.

And a terrible understanding.

+

Below the spiral, in the chamber of the Watchers, one of them moved.

The youngest—cloaked in stasis-glass and thread—stepped out of the circle. She picked up an unlit lantern.

The second bell toll struck as she reached the stairwell, and the flame inside the lantern flickered to life on its own.

She stopped. Looked down at it.

Then whispered, "They really are waking up."

For the first time in decades, the Watcher allowed herself to hope.

She walked alone, toward the surface.

Toward the Loombearer.