A night sky stretched wide and infinite, its stars glittering endlessly like fairy dust around a pale, lustrous moon. Their faint light draped across the barren expanse below—flat, dry earth broken only by small, rounded mounds of packed soil.
At the center of that desolation yawned a rectangular pit, dark and silent. For a breath, nothing stirred—then two eyes snapped open within the gloom, glowing like molten amber.
The darkness churned.
Golden light bloomed inside those eyes—intricate hexagonal sigils flaring alight within mud-brown depths. Each pattern shifted and folded into the next, cosmic geometry masquerading as madness. They pulsed with a dreadful beauty—something between sacred art and a horror artist's fever dream.
*Badum… Badum!*
His heart began to beat.
Rainer stirred, but his limbs refused him, proving stiff and unyielding. It felt as though ice ran through his veins.
He looked around, and golden streaks traced faint arcs in the air where his eyes moved, fading. The scent of damp humus filled his nostrils; the chill soil clung to his skin. Above him, the grave's mouth gaped wide, offering a framed view of a breathtaking night sky.
He tried to speak only to dissolve into a hacking cough that rattled his stiff chest.
"Haah—damn…"
Rainer groaned, forcing his body upright, his joints creaked.
'Hells!' He thought bitterly. 'This body's been dead at least an hour! How annoyed must Era be with me to send me into this mannequin?'
He tried to flex an arm, but grimaced as pain stabbed through him.
Suddenly, his skin shimmered with a faint golden aura and his agony ebbed. Warmth—soothing and familiar, flowing through his muscles as his joints slowly loosened.
He slumped back, breathing hard.
"Took you long enough, Era."
Rainer begrudgingly let the rejuvenating power heal him, a feature he'd come to expect across many transmigrations.
Transmigration meant waking in a new body, which was usually fresh from a traumatic death. He'd even awoken in a bullet-riddled corpse, watching the healing glow force the slugs out.
However, this special healing was notoriously unreliable, and to make matters worse, Era restricted it to a single use at the moment of his arrival.
He raised his arm again to discover that the stiffness had lessened
'Not too damaged,' He mused.
'Though rigor mortis doesn't ease easily—'
He paused as a sudden prickle crawled down his spine, and his gaze shifted. Something about this place felt...off, like it didn't belong to the living. The air itself seemed laden with death.
As a cosmic being, Rainer could sense metaphysical residues as easily as mortals felt wind. Even stripped of most of his power, the spiritual chill here pressed upon him heavily.
'Where am I, exactly…?'
He reached down, sifting the soil through his fingers. The texture was moist, freshly dug.
'Ahh. Nice texture. Rich scent too—'
Then the realization struck.
'Wait! This vibe! This position—oh, stars above! This is a grave!!!'
His eyes widened.
*Chik! Chuk!*
The muffled clatter of shovels suddenly broke the silence above, and dirt tumbled down from the sky onto his legs—then his chest.
"Oi! Hold on!" He croaked in disbelief. "I just got here!"
He rolled awkwardly onto all fours, groaning as he tried to stand. More dirt cascaded over him, showering his hair and shoulders.
Then—a clump struck him square in the face.
He froze, lips twitching.
'Perfect.'
He let out a violent sneeze, spitting out dust.
'If my throat didn't feel like a squeezed-out juice box,' He grumbled inwardly, 'I'd give whoever's up there the scolding of a century!'
Rainer, the great cosmic champion, found himself half-buried and coughing in his own grave.
...Truly not his worst transmigration yet.
–✺–
A few moments earlier…
Two soldiers sat on the barren ground, encircled by neat rows of identical mounds stretching around. The first was a young man barely into his twenties; the second, older, perhaps mid-thirties.
Both wore lorica hamata—chain mail over green tunics. Their hobnailed sandals were clotted with loam, and their brass Gallic helmets rested by their knees. The winds brushed over the grave site, carrying with it a faint smell of iron and decay.
The older man raised a chunk of hard bread to his mouth and bit down noisily, jaw working like a millstone. The coarse chewing filled the quiet.
Across from him, the younger soldier scowled.
"You shouldn't eat here, Cormac," He hissed, his voice low and edged with unease. His eyes swept the rows of soil mounds surrounding them.
"You'll offend the spirits of the dead."
Cormac chuckled, unconcerned, flicking crumbs from his beard before tossing the last bite into his mouth.
"What's this, Kotys? You've taken up Roman superstition now?" He teased through a full mouth. "How ironic! What—do you think the dead will crawl out and drag us into the underworld?"
He grinned, but Kotys didn't. His brow furrowed sharply as his head snapped toward the open pit where they had buried the slave moments ago.
"Quiet, Cormac," He whispered. "I think I heard someone—something cough."
Cormac's laughter burst out immediately. He slapped his thigh, rising to his feet with a bark of amusement.
"Haha! You never cease to amaze me, Kotys! Tell me—does your father know his son fears corpses?"
Kotys shot him a glare cold enough to silence most men, but Cormac only smirked and motioned toward the pit.
"The only ones here are you, me… and him."
Yet before his grin could fade, Cormac noticed a lone figure approaching from the direction of the military camp, and his amusement faltered.
The approaching boy wore a long white tunic that glowed faintly under the moonlight. His hair—short, wavy, and golden, gracefully caught the silver gleam of the stars, sea-blue eyes reflected that same light, sharp yet strangely pure.
As he drew closer, Cormac's stomach dropped as recognition dawned.
"By the gods…" He muttered. "Kotys—get up! That's Lord Praefect's favorite slave! If he's out here, he's spying on us for taking too long!"
Kotys swore under his breath, snatching up his shovel and moving to the other side of the pit.
Both men soon began hastily shoveling soil into the open grave. Dust rose in pale plumes as the boy reached them, stopping a few steps away.
"Miles," The boy said, his voice polite but firm, "Please wait. By permission of my Domine, I've come to pay Charon's obol."
He reached into his pouch and withdrew a gleaming silver coin.
Kotys blinked in surprise. "A denarius?"
Cormac's eyes widened, greed flashing across his face before he could hide it. "A whole denarius—for a slave?"
But before he could take a step forward, something clamped cold and solid around his ankle.
His breath caught.
He turned, ready to scold Kotys—but froze.
Kotys stood opposite him, deathly pale, eyes wide and fixed in horror at Cormac's feet.
"Cormac…" Kotys whispered. "Don't… move."
Slowly, Cormac looked down.
From the pit below, a hand—ashen, caked in mud—was wrapped around his leg. The fingers dug deep into his flesh.
Then the soil shifted.
The corpse beneath it stirred, dragging itself upward with agonizing slowness. Its head rose into view—lips blue, face half-covered in dirt, eyes glowing faintly gold with intricate, impossible patterns deep within their depths.
For a single, petrifying heartbeat, those eyes met Cormac's.
He failed to breathe, or look away.
When he tried to scream, no sound came.
The dead had risen.
And it was looking right at him.