Vanalath opened his eyes and found himself in a gray world. The ground was gray. The trees were gray. The mountains, the sky, the clouds, everything was a combination of black and white. He stood, finding himself oddly weightless, and looked around to find himself in the same place he’d fallen unconscious. He was in the middle of the hunter camp, by the great stone monolith. Nearby were a few ghouls, staring at him with odd looks in their eyes.

Wait—these weren’t ghouls. Why had he mistaken them for undead? These were the hunters he had just fought with. Was he captured? No. He wasn’t bound, and there was no reason for these men to capture him.

The handful of hunters were garbed in leather and wearing their headdresses, which now appeared drab in this colorless world. They didn’t move, didn’t appear to even acknowledge him, despite their stares.

No, they weren’t ghouls, but Vanalath knew why he had thought they were.

These men were dead.

They were whole, uninjured. But even as Vanalath looked on, one of them blurred, and a gaping wound appeared on his chest. The man looked down at the wound, and moved his hand to touch the injury. There was no expression on his face.

The lack of emotion and colors made it seem less gory, somehow. Less real. As abruptly as it had appeared, the wound vanished, leaving the man unmarred.

Then, Vanalath heard the voices. It was a distant mumbling, from the mouths of these dead men. Their lips barely moved, but if he strained his ears, he could make out the words.

What happened?

It hurts.

Why are we here?

Him, he did this.

Vanalath narrowed his eyes, reaching for his sword belt, but found that the sword wasn’t there. He looked down, and sure enough, it was lying nearby. He must have dropped it before falling unconscious. Crouching while maintaining a line of sight on the hunters, he attempted to pick it up, but when his hand grasped the hilt, it wouldn’t even budge. He tugged with all of his strength, but it might as well have been welded to the earth itself.

Monster.

Lifting his arms in a defensive position, he resigned himself to fight bare-handed.

The men, though their murmurs became only more vitriolic with time, never moved to attack him. They gazed at him dully, speaking bitter words, but ultimately refused to move, as if their feet were adhered to the ground in the same way as his sword.

Hate him.

Vanalath, hearing them speak, was reminded a great deal of the whispers he’d been hearing since earlier that day, after raiding the prison. That couldn’t be a coincidence.

He whirled around at the sudden voice. Behind him, sitting down and leaning on the obelisk, was Orimo. The man looked much like he had in life, though he lacked his injuries, including the ones he received before fighting Vanalath. He appeared strangely relaxed, though he was in the presence of his murderer.

Vanalath asked.

Even before he’d finished speaking, his hand had darted to his throat.

He’d just spoken. The words had come to his lips completely unbidden.

Orimo grunted, taking note of the ghoul’s reaction.

Vanalath asked, though he hadn’t meant to say anything.

The conversation entered into a strange hiatus as Vanalath struggled to get a handle on his voice. Orimo seemed happy to wait, gazing down at the other dead hunters with a strange look in his eyes.

When the ghoul had finally gotten a hold of himself, he realized that he needed to organize his questions. If the old hunter was willing to answer him, that was well and good, but Vanalath didn’t want to spend more time in this place than necessary. If he was unconscious right now, then he needed to return to the waking world.

Minor questions flitted through his head. Things like ‘You realize that you’re dead?’, ‘Why aren’t we fighting right now?’ or ‘How is it that I understand your language?’

Better to stick to the important ones.

He asked,

There was a short pause. Orimo’s forehead tightened, his eyes narrowing as he considered the question.

he finally replied.

Vanalath nodded.

Orimo said, as if this satisfied all the requirements.

Unless it was all a hallucination, Vanalath was certain that Orimo and the other hunters gathered here were those that he had killed in the recent battle. Other than Orimo, there were four men total. In the fight, only three had fallen to his sword, but the fourth he recognized as his temporary “shield.” The man must have succumbed to his wounds.

said Orimo.

Vanalath said, with a gesture at the gray hunters, “seem to want my blood.”

Orimo inspected the men, who remained standing in the places where—Vanalath now realized—they had died in the real world.

he said, musingly.

He wasn’t sure that he did.

Orimo began to study him, a frown creasing his brow.

Vanalath spoke,

Orimo appeared to seriously consider the question. He glanced up, and Vanalath followed his gaze, but he saw nothing but trees, cliffs, and mountains.

Orimo breathed.

Hm?

Vanalath had no idea what this man was talking about. If he had a daughter, then she likely lived in the Cradle. And everyone in the Cradle was already dead. But despite the truth of the matter, this man appeared to believe that she lived. Perhaps Vanalath could use that.

he asked.

Orimo weighed the question for a moment before replying.

Vanalath chose not to respond.

…Training? Now that was a tempting offer, but Vanalath wasn’t certain if he needed such a thing. His specialization appeared to be quite different from the hunter’s. There were many things he wished to know about this world, but his mistress was already there to teach him… if she chose to. Vanalath knew fully that she was someone who weighed cost and benefit on a scale.

And was he mistaken, or did he spot desperation in Orimo’s eyes?

Orimo appeared taken aback at the question. Had he forgotten the nature of the one whom he was bargaining with?

Finally, the hunter muttered something.

Vanalath had no intention of breaking a promise with this dead man. He simply believed that this daughter of his was already dead.

And if she somehow lived, it wouldn’t matter if something else killed her, right?

So, with some curiosity regarding what might be learned from Orimo, Vanalath nodded his head. Orimo extended a hand, and they shook on it.

At that moment, everything changed. Vanalath felt a shift, and his ears popped as if the air pressure had just doubled. Then, a gong sounded, and an earth-shattering vibration shook the entirety of this gray world.

Pact… Successful.

He fell to his knees as the words that were not words passed through his mind. His gaze was slowly drawn upwards as if an invisible hand lifted his chin. Far, far above him, above the mountains, the clouds, the skies and even the dimly twinkling stars themselves, something appeared.

It was enormous. A galaxy, suspended overhead.

It was a kaleidoscope of madly intermixed colors, as if the reason the pigments of this universe had been eliminated was so that they could be placed therein.

It was an eye. And it was looking at him.

A voice that wasn’t a voice sounded in his mind, and he felt a tether weakening.

Vessel.

He became weightless, floating upwards like a morning fog being burned away by the light of the sun.

The Preliminary Trial Is Complete.

Vanalath had the sense that though he was only now seeing this titanic eye, it had been watching him for quite some time before that. Perhaps even before he ever entered this world, it had been judging him.

Seven More Await.

His last sight as the ground rapidly disappeared beneath him was of Orimo the Hunter tilting his head up, a complicated smile on his face as Vanalath disappeared into the sky.

- - -

Completion of Tier 2 as an Uncommon race confirmed.

Completion Dividend (Uncommon): +10 stats

Calculating distribution…

Strength + 2

Agility + 2

Dexterity + 2

Miasma + 4

Significant deviation detected. Tolerance adjusted.

[Race Shift] initiated.

Individual (Uncommon) is evolving into (Rare).

Innate ability lost.

Innate ability developed.

[Level Increased]

Strength + 1

Dexterity + 1

Vanalath’s eyes opened to a swarm of dimly glowing characters floating before him. As he hazily came to his senses, they faded away. Somewhere nearby, someone was singing. It was a woman’s voice, humming low and soft. He blinked, wondering why everything was dark, but discovered that a cloth had been draped over his head.

Removing the garment, he stood and took a quick note of his surroundings. His mistress was nearby, kneeling by the great stone monument. She was the source of the singing, but Vanalath had already guessed as much. Several ghouls stood guard nearby, rigid statues. Vanalath noted that Kalaki was among them, and felt some relief at that fact. Anamu was nowhere to be seen.

In the center of camp, the bodies of the hunters had been arranged in rows on the ground. They were mostly intact. The necromancer wished to be able to reanimate some useful soldiers later and hunters made for prime stock, so they only had a few bites taken out of them. The slain ghouls, on the other hand… his eyes wandered down the hill, where he saw a great pile of corpses. That was where most of the remaining undead were, nibbling on the vast quantities of putrid flesh that was readily available.

After confirming that there were no threats nearby, Vanalath seemed to have some time on his hands. Whatever the necromancer was doing seemed like it would take some time. He first tested his recovery with a few simple stretches. There was no sign of lasting injuries from the fight against Orimo, but his body… he had clearly changed.

He felt amazing. As light as a feather, yet with none of a feather’s fragility. Retrieving his sword, he began a quick routine, but paused after noticing the appearance of his arm. He sheathed the blade and stalked out of camp, towards the sound of a gurgling brook he’d heard nearby. Upon arriving, he found a stream pool where the water was relatively calm and knelt, observing his reflection by the bank.

Unfortunately, his hair fell down in front of his gaze, blocking his view. He tried sweeping a hand through the thick mop to move it away, but when this didn’t work, he dunked his head into the water and combed through it with his fingers. It had grown another few inches during this evolution, and the long black hair was a tangled mess. After a moment of debate, he took his sword to it, shearing off the worst of it. Then, ripping a strip of cloth from his sleeve and tying the rest back into a loose ponytail, he observed his other changes.

What immediately captured his attention was the same thing that made him stop his sword exercises: his skin. As a ghoul, he had been gray-skinned, which along with his height set him apart from most of the other undead. After all, the Yaranians whom he’d been preying upon since he was raised were short and white-skinned, so a tall, dark ghoul was distinctive. Now, he resembled them in at least one of those aspects. He was now paler than even the alabaster Children of the Mountain. One of the few things that distinguished Vanalath from a statue carved from marble were his predatory eyes, which were now such a brilliant and unsettling yellow that they appeared as two pinpricks of light on the surface of the water. There was a vertical scar on his face, running over his left eye, which he recognized as the remnants of Orimo’s final attack, which had successfully destroyed his eye and blinded him. It had since regrown, but a close inspection showed him that it wasn’t only his skin: the cornea itself was left with a scar, which made the pupil appear oddly slitted. He blinked a few times, finding that his vision was slightly worse in his left eye. So not everything had healed.

At the base of his throat, another scar could be seen where that same hunter’s arrow had passed through his neck. This one had no obvious negative effects. He tested howling. He even tried speaking and found that his voice came… not easily, but far more effortlessly than it had been as a ghoul. His voice was low, but dry. He spoke with a rasp that reminded him of sandpaper.

Other than the two scars and his bloodstained clothes, there was no sign on him of the life-and-death battle that had just been fought. He had fully recovered, and even come out stronger, as he’d hoped he would.

Vanalath leaned against a nearby tree and thought. His physical changes were startling, but more than that, what had changed the most was his mentality.

He wasn’t a ghoul. That, he knew with certainty. After waking earlier, he looked at the rest of the undead, but that sense of oneness that he’d once felt no longer came at his bidding. That wild, empathic energy that flowed from ghoul to ghoul was lost to him. However, rather than a sense of loss, Vanalath felt freer than ever, as if he’d broken out of a second set of shackles—the first being the chains of absolute servitude to the necromancer.

Now, those ghouls were under him.

Even greater than this newfound freedom was a second type of liberation. While it was true that the voices in his mind were always speaking, he was now able to silence them. He hadn’t even noticed he’d been doing it until the thought came to him. A simple exertion of his will, and no longer was he subjected to the endless accusations of the dead. Was this related to his experiences in the gray world, where he had talked to Orimo?

He could feel the presence of these voices like a nest of venomous snakes, but compared to before, this was a breath of fresh air. This burden was manageable.

Finally, he turned his attention to the thing that had caught his attention the instant he awoke. The characters.

With a simple thought, they returned. That was something he’d never accomplished before. He could summon and dismiss these glowing runes at will. And now, looking through them, he discovered that he now understood some of them. Like a memory dredged up from the distant past, he recognized a few of these words.

It wasn’t reading, not really, but remembering.

As Vanalath sat by the side of a gurgling brook, he did his best to recall as many of these words as he could.