Cormac, son of Arturi, was a proud Celtic warrior—fierce, stubborn, and seasoned by war. Little in life terrified him. Yet now, his heart felt submerged in frigid waters.
With a strangled shriek, he stumbled backward, hurling his shovel aside and landing hard on his back.
The corpse pulled itself up onto the grave's wall, its pair of eyes glaring at him—bright and burning with fury.
"Hey! You piece of filth! You got sand in my mouth!"
The voice was hoarse and ragged in a half-snarl, half-groan.
Cormac froze, trembling as sweat slicked his brow.
"N-No… Daemon! Don't drag me to the underworld! Lugh, protect me!"
In blind panic, he kicked free and bolted. His sandals scraped earth and gravel as he sprinted toward camp, shouting wildly,
"Daemon! The slave corpse walks!"
For a beat, Rainer blinked after him, bewildered.
'Demon? Where—' He paused mid-thought.
'Wait…it's me, isn't it?'
At this, a long, resigned sigh escaped him.
'Perfect. I terrified the locals again.'
He rubbed at his eyes irritably. The faint golden patterns pulsing beautifully, yet deeply inconvenient.
'This always happens after a transmigration. The rejuvenation cycle heals the body but turns me into a glowing mess for a minute. And of course—' He groaned inwardly— 'Era designed it to run once per vessel. Stingy throne.'
He slumped with a huff.
Just then, motion caught his eye—a slender figure hurrying toward him, clutching something shiny.
A young boy. Tear-streaked, trembling.
'Oh! He's adorable,' Rainer thought, lips curling faintly. But the boy's expression—guilt-ridden and desperate, gave him a bad feeling.
"Oi! What are you—"
Before he could finish, the boy collapsed to his knees and shoved a silver coin between Rainer's lips.
"Forgive me, great ferryman!" The boy sobbed. "I beg you—accept this payment for my friend's passage into the underworld!"
"Fack the ferryman!" Rainer sputtered, fighting back.
A brief, chaotic scuffle ensued—one part tragedy, two parts absurdity, as the boy tried to put him back in the grave.
"Grahh!"
Rainer managed to shove the boy aside, hauling himself up from the pit. He then sprawled flat on the ground, panting.
"What—haah—what in the nine hells were you doing?!"
His voice, though strained, was clearer now. The burn in his throat had faded, and he idly wondered if the coin lodged somewhere in his gut did him a favor in that regard.
His once-golden eyes dulled to a natural brown as the fiery patterns cooled beneath the surface. Only a faint shimmer of light clung to his skin, and even that had slowly begun to fade.
The boy slowly crawled toward him, eyes wide and brimming with tears.
"F-friend? Is… is that really you?"
Rainer raised a questioning brow and opened his mouth to reply—when he felt the cold breath of metal on his throat.
He turned slowly.
A spearpoint hovered a lick away from his neck, gleaming under the moon.
Its wielder stood tall and silent—Kotys. His expression was unreadable, eyes dark as shadowed orbs. The moon above him forged his silhouette into something grim and statuesque.
Rainer's lips curved into a fascinated smile.
"Ah… Behold the face of death."
For a fleeting second, something flickered in Kotys's eyes—offense, confusion, maybe even pity. Then the spear pressed closer, grazing Rainer's skin.
He swallowed hard, a crooked grin breaking through.
"…Easy there, soldier. I bruise easily."
"Listen," Rainer began carefully, raising both hands in mock surrender. "I know what this looks like, but I mean no harm. I'm friendly."
He tried a smile—one that landed somewhere between awkward and unconvincing.
Kotys said nothing, his expression remained unreadable. Though the spear had begun to draw blood.
Seeing no reaction, Rainer's grin faded, and he sighed, becoming a tad more earnest.
"Do you gamble, friend? If so, I'd ask that you take a bet on me. There's a good chance you won't regret it."
Kotys tilted his head slightly, squinting as though weighing the absurdity of it all. For a moment, his eyes searched Rainer's—no longer golden but plainly human eyes. Soon, a faint tremor ran along the spear shaft before, slowly, he withdrew it.
"There we go," Rainer said with a relieved smile. "You did a great thing here—remember that."
He smacked his lips, momentarily scanning the area. Then his gaze returned to Kotys.
"So, uh… You wouldn't happen to have something to eat, would you? Meat, preferably. I'm starving, and metal coins don't digest well."
Kotys grimaced, stepping back warily.
"And I meant normal food, not human flesh," Rainer quickly added.
Kotys hesitated, then retrieved a piece of hard bread from his pouch and handed it over with caution.
"Thank you!" Rainer muttered, snatching it and biting off a hefty chunk.
He devoured it greedily as Kotys and the boy exchanged uncertain glances.
A strange silence soon fell, broken only by the sound of Rainer's hurried chewing.
When at last justice had been done to his tummy, he let out a satisfied sigh.
"So…" He began, brushing crumbs from his chin. "Where are we?"
At the question, the boy's gaze darted to Kotys, waiting for his lead.
Rainer tilted his head between them, brows raised expectantly.
"Come on," He prodded lightly. "I'm friendly, remember?"
Kotys regarded him for a long, unreadable moment before replying flatly:
"Roma."
Rainer froze, then his lips split into a wide grin as his eyes gleamed with excitement.
"Perfect."
–✺–
Meanwhile, Cormac burst through the wooden palisade gates of the camp, stumbling across packed earth and firelight.
Beyond him stretched rows of white tents lined in strict order, the smell of smoke and boiled grain thick in the air. Soldiers moved about, dousing campfires and preparing for rest.
"The slave!" Cormac bellowed, panting.
"A daemon's possessed Lord Praefect's slave! Kotys is fighting it alone! I need reinforcements!"
"What?!"
"A daemon!?"
"Where are the centurions?!?"
The men leapt up from their resting spots, snatching shields and gladii, their alarm spreading like wildfire.
"Quiet!"
A booming voice cracked across the camp, silencing the tumult.
A towering soldier strode forward—Optio Commius, his green-crested Gallic helmet glinting under torchlight. He wore the battle-worn lorica segmentata of a veteran, his aura heavy with command.
He stopped before Cormac and seized his shoulder with a grip like iron.
Cormac shrank back.
"Optio Commius—"
"Is what you say true?" Commius interrupted sharply, getting in his face. "Did the slave truly rise as a daemon?"
Cormac swallowed hard and nodded.
Commius's jaw tightened at this, and his expression darkened. He turned aside and barked an order.
"Fetch Decurio Sabazios, at once!"
"Optio!" A nearby soldier shouted. "The second cavalry commander and his men just returned from their patrol!"
Commius's glare snapped toward him like a whip.
"Then move your legs, boy!" He roared. "That's exactly why I want him!"