[Insufficient mana absorbed. Required mana is now twice the previous amount. Please charge more mana. Function terminated.]
The skeletal knight, its fiery eyes blazing with malice, crumbled into dust and vanished. Michael silently bid the spirit farewell, appreciating its "generosity."
Based on his observations, a single malevolent spirit seemed to provide mana equivalent to three mana stones. But with the required mana now doubled, it would take six stones—or two spirits—for his next ability. By that logic, the next tier would demand twelve stones or four spirits, an exponential increase.
The cost was steep, rivaling the most exploitative moneylenders. Yet the rewards were undeniable. Transforming from a novice archer to a marksman of extraordinary precision was worth the effort.
Even with an old longbow, Michael's archery skills had become impeccable. He could only imagine what he might achieve with a high-quality, finely-tuned bow. Furthermore, his physical abilities had subtly improved—he felt faster, stronger, more resilient.
But where could he find more spirits? They were far from common. As much as his new abilities expanded his possibilities, their conditions were daunting. And there was another issue.
What if someone witnessed the mana absorption process? Whether it was mana stones dissolving or spirits being drained, the sight could only lead to trouble in a world quick to label anything unusual as the work of demons or evil gods. Michael couldn't afford that kind of suspicion.
Maybe gloves would prevent accidental absorption? Then again, wearing gloves at all times might seem unnatural.
[Absorption settings can be adjusted.]
A new message interrupted his thoughts. Was this an option all along?
[Settings will be updated. During the 12-hour update process, mana absorption will be disabled. The update begins now.]
The voice almost sounded cheerful, though Michael dismissed it as his imagination. Relieved, he turned toward home, his cart laden with the day's haul of game.
By the time Michael skinned and cleaned the animals, the evening was already upon him. Washing the blood from his hands, he stepped inside the house, where Clara approached him in a rush, her face grave.
"Go to the annex. There's been an accident—five people died during logging. Your uncle is bringing the bodies."
Without hesitation, Michael made his way to the annex. In addition to the execution chamber, the annex housed a workspace for tasks like autopsies and post-accident examinations.
When he arrived, Henry was already unloading the bodies, each shrouded in blood-stained white cloth. The accident must have been gruesome. Michael silently joined his uncle in transferring the bodies from the cart to the workbench.
As they moved one of the bodies, an arm slipped out from beneath the shroud, dangling limply. No matter how many times he faced such scenes, he could never fully grow accustomed to them. The day's tragedy would cast a shadow over many families in the barony.
Before long, a group of men gathered outside the annex—survivors of the accident, many of them limping or nursing bandaged wounds. A somber-looking middle-aged man stepped forward as their representative.
"Please, take care of them… We'll cover the costs through the logging guild. Just make them presentable for their families. In this state, we can't even leave the coffins open," he pleaded.
Henry nodded solemnly. Preparing bodies was one of his specialties—a skill Michael still had much to learn.
"Inform the families. Tell them the bodies will be ready in two days. They can prepare the funerals," Henry said. "I'm more concerned about the surviving workers. Are they alright?"
The man sighed heavily. "It's hard to say. This could have happened to any of us. I can't stop thinking about how to break the news to their families. Some of them are already struggling to get through the winter…"
For these laborers, death wasn't the end of tragedy—it left those still living to carry the burden. The weight of it all was etched on the man's face as he turned and left with the others.
Inside the annex, Michael began arranging the bodies on the workbench. While Henry fetched supplies, Michael straightened twisted limbs, cleaned dried blood, and began basic preparations.
Standing over the least damaged body, he gripped the shoulder with one hand and gently pulled the neck back into place. The unnatural angle slowly corrected itself. Moving on to the next body, he extended broken limbs and carefully wiped away the blood.
The rest of the work required Henry's expertise. The bodies would need to be embalmed, crushed areas filled with carved wood, torn skin stitched, and collapsed sections padded with cotton. Finally, Clara would take over, dressing and grooming the deceased for their final presentation.
The process wasn't just about honoring the dead—it was for the living. Funerals helped families confront and accept death, remembering their loved ones as they were in life.
Only executioners and their descendants were entrusted with such tasks. As agents of vengeance and peace, they carried the dual role of restoring dignity to the dead and helping the living face loss.
Henry wouldn't sleep tonight, working tirelessly to fulfill his promise to the families. Michael would stay and assist, continuing to learn the trade passed down through their family.
By early morning, Clara appeared at the annex door, carrying a tray with steaming tea and snacks.
"Take a break, both of you. Have something to eat—you didn't even have dinner."
Henry grinned in gratitude, removing his gloves and quickly downing the tea and snacks Clara had brought. Michael, seated nearby, took a careful sip of the hot tea. The warmth seemed to ease his exhaustion.
Clara set the tray aside and brushed her hand gently through Michael's blonde hair. Though he looked no older than his late teens, the weight of his duties mirrored that of an adult. For Clara, every young life lost was a reminder of her own sorrow. After three stillbirths, she was unable to bear children, and each tragedy brought her to the brink of tears.
Outside, snow began to fall, blanketing the world in a silent, white stillness.
Elsewhere, deep in the forest, Alfred stood unmoving, the snow gathering on his shoulders. The woods were deathly quiet, as though all living creatures had stopped to hold their breath.
With his eyes closed, Alfred stretched out a hand. Shadows spilled across the snow, spreading like creeping vines. As he grasped at the shadows, they twisted and coiled, forming into two distinct masses.
"Find those who killed you," Alfred commanded.