Elias woke to the familiar scent of incense, old wood, and embalming fluid.
That alone told him he was alive.
His body, however, disagreed.
Pain spread through him in slow, dull waves, deep in the bones, stitched into muscle, lodged behind his eyes. It wasn't the sharp agony of fresh wounds, but the heavy, crushing aftermath of something that should have killed him.
He lay still on the narrow bed in the back room of the funeral house, staring at the ceiling beams, counting his breaths until the nausea settled.
So.
He made it back.
Barely.
The funeral house was quiet. Elias had slipped away before meeting Celestia—he didn't remember how, only fragments of shadows and corridors and the instinctive need to disappear before his luck ran out.
His fingers twitched.
Every movement felt wrong, like his body had been reassembled slightly off-center. Broken, he thought tiredly. Cracked enough that the next incident might finish the job.
He exhaled.
Then the temperature in the room dropped.
Elias closed his eyes.
"No," he said flatly. "Absolutely not."
A soft laugh drifted in through the window.
He opened his eyes just in time to see a figure leaning halfway through the glass as if it weren't there at all, red fabric brushing the sill, translucent fingers resting lightly on the frame. The ghost bride tilted her head, her veil swaying as if caught by a breeze only she could feel.
Her presence no longer pressed down on him like before. The weight was gone. The bitterness. The rage.
Only quiet remained.
"…You're leaving," Elias said.
She nodded.
Beyond her shoulder, the morning light filtered through pale mist, and within it stood a small figure, a boy, waiting patiently, his form steady and whole. No chains. No wounds. He looked back at her, eyes bright.
Her son.
The bride smiled at him, then turned back to Elias. She slipped fully into the room, her red wedding dress fluttering without sound. From within her sleeve, she let something fall into Elias's open palm.
Metal clinked softly.
Gold coins.
Nine. No, ten.
Elias stared at them, his blood running cold.
"…I already received these, What are they?" he said slowly.
The bride's smile softened. "Currency," she said gently. "From the other side."
The room seemed to tilt.
Elias paled, his fingers curling instinctively around the coins as if they might burn him. Expensive didn't even begin to cover it. Objects like this didn't belong in the living world didn't stay without consequence.
"I have no intention of dying," he said stiffly. "Or getting involved in this kind of thing ever again."
She laughed.
Not mockingly. Not cruelly. Just… amused.
"You said the same thing before," she replied. "And yet you still helped me."
Elias looked away.
He didn't deny it.
The bride drifted closer, her presence warm now, almost comforting. "You could have used that umbrella immediately," she said. "Devoured the beast in an instant. It would have been easy."
"And the souls," Elias said quietly. "Would've gone with it."
"Yes."
Her eyes met his knowingly.
"So you waited," she continued. "You broke the seal instead. You released them first. You risked dying."
Elias said nothing.
His face remained calm, emotionless as ever. Inside, exhaustion screamed at him to stop thinking, stop remembering the weight of those souls gathering around the altar, waiting for release.
"You are kinder than you think," the bride said softly. "Kinder than you look."
Elias let out a tired breath. "That's a problem."
She laughed again, brighter this time, as her red dress lifted gently in a wind that wasn't there. She turned toward the window, toward her son, her form already growing faint.
"Thank you," she said over her shoulder. "For everything, Mr. Funeral Director."
She paused.
"Try to be normal."
Then she stepped into the light.
Her figure dissolved like mist under the sun, veil, dress, and sorrow all fading together, until only the quiet room remained.
Elias lay there for a long time.
The coins were still warm in his palm.
He closed his hand around them, jaw tightening.
"No," he muttered to the empty room. "I'm done."
No more monsters. No more cultists. No more ancient curses or afterlife currencies.
He was just a funeral director.
Just that.
…Right?
*****
The flower shop smelled faintly of earth and rainwater.
Elias stood there longer than necessary, staring at rows of white chrysanthemums, lilies, and small bundles of wildflowers tied with twine.
His body still felt heavy, like he was moving underwater, but he forced himself to stay upright. If he lay down again, he suspected he wouldn't get back up for a very long time.
"Just these," he said quietly, selecting a simple bouquet.
No embellishments. No ribbons.
The shopkeeper wrapped the stems with practiced ease. Elias paid, nodded, and stepped back outside, the bell above the door chiming softly behind him.
The sky was overcast.
Good, Elias thought. Less sunlight.
He opened the cursed umbrella as he walked, the black canopy unfurling soundlessly above him. To ordinary eyes, it was nothing more than a tasteful, old-fashioned accessory.
This umbrella really is convenient, he thought tiredly. Too convenient.
The cemetery lay on the outskirts of town, tucked between overgrown trees and neglected stone paths. Elias passed the iron gates without slowing, his steps measured, calm.
Normally, the gravedigger would be there, an old man with a crooked back and a habit of humming funeral hymns off-key.
Today, the grounds were empty.
That was strange.
Elias didn't dwell on it. He'd learned the hard way that questioning every anomaly only led to headaches and unnecessary attention. He walked deeper into the cemetery, past newer plots and polished headstones, until the paths became uneven and the markers older.
Here, time had clearly given up.
Cracked stones leaned at odd angles, names half-erased by wind and rain. Moss crept over dates no one remembered. This part of the cemetery wasn't visited often, not by family, not by caretakers.
An abandoned grave.
Elias stopped.
He knelt without hesitation, setting the bouquet carefully in front of a weathered headstone. The inscription was faint, but still legible if you looked closely.
Marriane.
No family name. No epitaph. Just a name and a date from decades ago.
"So that was it," Elias murmured.
He hadn't known her name before. Not when she was screaming in rage, not when she stood soaked in blood and sorrow, not even when she smiled as she left with her son.
But now he knew.
Marriane.
The name felt… gentle.
Elias adjusted the flowers, making sure they wouldn't topple over, then rested back on his heels. For a moment, he simply stayed there, umbrella angled just enough to shield both himself and the grave.
"Maybe this counts," he said softly, unsure who he was speaking to. "As a visit."
Since transmigrating into this world, Elias had never bothered with graves. He didn't have anyone to mourn. The Elias of this world was a tragic, forgettable existence, a background character whose death wouldn't even warrant a footnote.
Not even an extra, really.
And yet.
He looked at the name again.
"…Perhaps you're my first friend here," he admitted quietly.
The thought surprised him with how little it hurt.
Life was like this, wasn't it? Meetings followed by separations. Brief connections that ended before you were ready.
Still.
He rose slowly, joints protesting, and gave the grave a small nod.
"Rest well, Marriane."
The cult incident was over. Finished earlier than it should have been.
In the original novel, the Jackal cult wouldn't be exposed for another year. Ryan and his team would stumble upon traces during a later arc, piecing things together bit by bit. It was supposed to be messy. Bloody.
Now? It was easier.
Too easy.
Elias didn't plan to stay in this countryside forever, but he had no intention of leaving anytime soon either. A quiet funeral house. Routine work. Minimal contact with exorcists and hunters.
Peace.
Ryan should be busy with the exorcist admission exams right now, struggling, growing, stepping into the spotlight meant for him. Elias had no reason, no desire to interfere anymore.
That was how it should be.
He turned.
Steel kissed his throat.
Elias froze.
A blade rested against the side of his neck, close enough that he could feel the faint vibration of its owner's breathing. One wrong move and his carotid artery would be open.
Behind him, a man smiled.
He could see it from the corner of his eye. A warm, gentle, almost friendly. The kind of smile that put people at ease. The kind that made you forget you were standing on the edge of death.
Inwardly, Elias's mind went completely blank.
Then—
Shit.
That face.
That presence.
That ridiculous, calm pressure pressing down on the air around them.
Noah Fallow.
The immortal exorcist.
Senior officer. S-rank. Member of the Seven-Head Council. Leader of Assault Squad Six. One hundred and fifty years old and still wearing the appearance of a man in his late twenties, with soft eyes and impeccable manners.
And absolutely, profoundly insane.
What the fuck is he doing here?!
Elias screamed internally, every instinct in his body flaring like a fire alarm. Of all people. Of all places. Of all possible timing.
This man.
If there was a monster that might become a disaster, Noah Fallow was the type to let it grow just to see what would happen. As long as casualties stayed within what he considered "acceptable limits."
Curious. Detached. Amused by despair.
And now his sword was at Elias's neck.
Outwardly, Elias looked… fine.
Calm. Detached. Expressionless.
A young man in a black turtleneck and trench coat, holding a closed umbrella in one hand, kneeling moments ago before an abandoned grave like a scene pulled straight out of a pretentious novel.
He probably looks ridiculous, Elias thought faintly. Like some mysterious, edgy protagonist.
Aghhh.
"Now," Noah said mildly, his voice smooth as polished glass, "this is interesting."
The pressure of the blade increased just slightly. Not enough to cut. Enough to remind Elias how easily it could.
"This area was supposed to be neutralized," Noah continued conversationally. "No lingering curses. No residual formations. And yet…"
His gaze flicked to the umbrella.
"…here you are."
Elias swallowed.
He wanted to explain. To say he was just a funeral director. That he had no idea what was going on. That he'd simply gotten unlucky.
He opened his mouth and closed it again.
Experience told him that lying to Noah Fallow was worse than useless.
So Elias did the only thing he could.
He spoke carefully.
"I'm just visiting a grave," he said quietly.
Noah's smile widened a fraction.
"Oh?" he said. "How touching."
Elias felt sweat trickle down his spine. His heart hammered, but his face betrayed none of it. His body refused to react the way it should, locked into that unnervingly composed stillness.
The sword didn't move.
Noah tilted his head, studying Elias like an interesting specimen.
"Tell me," he said pleasantly, "what are you?"
The blade pressed closer.