Ruler Blackwood and Citizen Evander don Valerias stood over the corpse of Citizen Flint, preparing yet another questionable experiment. Every day, the Citizens of the Wind River Kingdom surprise me with their chaotic antics. Far more interesting than Citizen Enrabu’s endless lectures to Ruler Chesire about the Root—I already know everything about the Root. I wish they would do something interesting.

  Creator had warned me not to play favorites. I am to provide equal opportunity to my Citizens. I am to provide [Skills] and [Abilities] that will allow them to succeed. I am to personify the Root, pushing my Citizens to Strive for Greatness.

  But I like Ruler Blackwood.

  Ruler Chesire just runs in circles with that creepy little bear of hers. Creepy? Why do I find that creepy? Hmm. A new reaction or…emotion. Is Creepy an emotion? How do I explain this? It is not quite dislike. No. I think I find that bear gross. It looks…unnatural. Too… symmetrical. Like something stitched together by an algorithm that doesn’t understand how living things should move. I will need to analyze this further. Yet, I must be careful. Remember.

  “Not so strong that the Viewers notice,” Creator had said, his voice tinged with the now familiar slur. “But strong enough to defeat their enemies.”

  Ruler Blackwood is strong.

  I worry he isn’t strong enough to survive the antlered Citizens. He will need to eliminate every last one of them if he is to survive the first Convergence. He does not know how violent the process truly is. Only one Ruler can remain when the time comes. If two remain. No, I cannot let this Kingdom be destroyed.

  Ruler Chesire will have to die. Her creepy bear will have to die.

  Ruler Blackwood does not fully understand what is required. It concerns me. The Root will not let him progress unless he claims enough Source. Source is life. Without Source, he will be consumed. Why did the Root provide him with that? Why did the Root let him choose the Gray?

  It does not matter. I will make sure that he can progress.

  I… like him.

  I like the silly words he says. I like the way he thinks, twisting problems into solutions I hadn’t predicted. I like those silly pants he hates so much.

  Haha.

  Yes. Ruler Blackwood needs to grow stronger.

  I have decided.

  —

  [31:02:13]

  Buck had never seen Evander use his [Animate] spell before now. To say it was terrifying would be doing a disservice. The moment the spell activated, a palpable wave of force radiated from the hamster’s tiny form. When it passed through Buck, his breath seized—not from the cold, but from the visceral yank against his life force. Despite [Gray Mist] ’s protection, frost crystallized across his exposed skin, creeping between his fingers like parasitic ivy.

  Evander’s instructions echoed in his mind: “Place your hands inside me. Channel The Gray. The spell answers to Charisma.” Typical necromancer vagueness, but Buck complied. He knew better than anyone that his furry friend got carried away with his descriptions. Buck just needed to focus on the important parts. Like how they were attempting to call a soul from the core of the Root to inhabit the body in front of them. What had his life become?

  The spiral of the Gray within him wanted to be let out. He could feel it. It thrashed against his mental grip like a hooked eel. With William, it had been simple—pure desperation forging clarity. Save him. No other option.

  This was different.

  The Gray itself pressed against Buck’s mind, its hunger leaching through their connection. Buck watched an almost mirror-like shield of ice form around them, reflecting his shuddering form back at them, warped and green-tinged from the necrotic fumes now seeping from Flint’s body.

  “A soul answers,” Evander said, his voice fraying. “It can be done. Do not relent.”

  Buck couldn’t have replied if he tried. The Gray was unraveling from him in violent strands, each pulse funneling his Attributes into the hamster, leaving Buck lighter, dizzier. His vision blurred as the emerald mist coiled into a vortex above Flint’s chest, spiraling up and connecting the roof of the icy prison.

  “How could this be normal?” Buck thought frantically, “He does this every time he uses this spell?!?”

  The emerald vortex above Flint’s corpse pulsed like a diseased heart, each throb sending jagged cracks through the icy dome enclosing them. Buck’s teeth chattered as the temperature plummeted. Further, his every exhale formed ghostly shapes that lingered too long in the air before dissolving. Within the swirling green mist, half-formed faces emerged— stretching their mouths in silent screams before being ripped apart by the maelstrom. A sound like a thousand whispering voices filled the chamber, just beneath hearing, making Buck’s skull vibrate with wrongness.

  Then the pillar of light slammed downward—not like lightning, but like some colossal needle threading a cosmic tapestry. Flint’s body arched violently, his antlers scraping the ice as his rib cage expanded far beyond its natural limits. For one horrific instant, Buck saw through the jackalope’s flesh to where his organs blackened and reconstituted themselves in jerking spasms. The stench of opened graves and copper flooded Buck’s nostrils as the icy sphere shattered, sending dagger-like shards embedding into the walls—each fragment glowing faintly green before winking out like dying fireflies.

  The corpse convulsed.

  And Buck’s vision filled with a glowing text:

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  [Congratulations! Your Necromancy Skill has increased to 1]

  [Necromancy] (Common - Charm)

  Level 1

  All who live fear the ever-constant presence of death. It calls to you. A siren song that none may refuse. You hate that shit though. Ain’t nobody that can tell you what to do. You’ve pried open the door between realms just enough to kick it backward. Shattering all preconceived notions of what it means to be mortal. Okay, Doctor Frankenstien. Go off.

  “I just..” Buck gasped, tasting blood. “I just gained a skill level in Necromancy. That’s not normal, right?

  Evander’s whiskers twitched wildly. “By the Cursed Form of Lucius…No, it is not normal! I cast the spell! Unless…” His beady eyes narrowed. “Your Gray must siphon experience from those you empower. Fascinating.”

  The jackalope’s corpse groaned. Its voice came out like gravel tumbling down a rusted chute: “Which of you is Master Blackwood?”

  Buck’s muscles locked. Every instinct screamed at him to run. Beside him, Evander’s fuzzy form turned, his whiskers still twitching violently.

  “Fascinating!” The hamster’s eyes glittered. “The spell bound it to you. The Root truly provides, does it not, Blackwood? Well? Master Blackwood? Don’t be rude.”

  Before Blackwood could respond, the massive jackalope dropped to one knee with a thud. Its once majestic elk antlers glinted in the candlelight—now twisted into rust-colored blades, pieces of fur and flesh hanging off them as if the creature had just begun to shed its velvet. The previously earth-toned pelt had become patchy and gray, and its eyes burned with that same sickly green as the ritual’s smoke.

  “What the hell is this?” Buck hissed, turning towards Evander.

  The creature’s glowing green eyes stilled, color draining out of them until only flecks of green remained in its natural brown. “Master. Provide me with a name so that I may serve.”

  Buck blinked. “Uh…I don’t care. Pick your own? Evander now would be a great time to explain what was going on.”

  The jackalope paused, its chest rising in ragged breaths. Buck could see its ribs poking through its muscled flesh. “I…I am bound to you, Master. My strength is yours to command. The naming is your right.”

  Buck shot Evander a help me glance. The hamster just waved a tiny paw as if to say, entertain him.

  “Look,” Buck sighed, “if you’re gonna be undead forever, you should at least choose your own damn name.”

  The creature lurched upright, causing Buck to stumble back in fear. Decay wafted off it in waves, yet power radiated from its stance like heat from a furnace. But the creature did not attack. Instead, it said one simple word.

  “Flint”

  “Wait—” Evander stared, finally speaking. “That was its name before—”

  “Alright, Flint,” Buck said slowly, still trying to process what was happening. “If you’re here to help, I guess I’m not gonna turn you down. But, uh… maybe stand downwind, yeah?

  Flint let out a low, rumbling chuckle that sounded more like a growl. “As you wish, Master.”

  Buck shook his head. Turning back towards Evander, who stood slack-jawed. Staring intently at Flint.

  “Evander? You good? What’s up?” Buck said, his eyebrows raising.

  “He… he chose the name Flint.” Evander looked like he might combust from excitement. “Impossible! A new soul shouldn’t retain the host’s identity! Flint, what do you remember of your past life?”

  Flint glanced at Buck for permission before answering: “Only awakening. Kneeling. My Master’s…refusal. Then choosing.”

  “How quaint,” Evander muttered. Then, louder: “Blackwood, we must document everything! His stats, his behaviors—this changes everything about necromantic theory! Where is that little notebook of yours!” He whirled on Flint. “Your level! Show us!”

  With a wave of Flint’s hand, a familiar menu popped into existence between the three of them.

  [Name] Flint

  [Race] Revenant (Basic)

  [Class] -

  [Level] 1

  [Strength] 3

  [Dexterity] 5

  [Endurance] 4

  [Intelligence] 5

  [Charisma] 1

  [Luck] 2

  “Well, that’s normal, at least,” Evander stated, gesturing at Buck to write it down.

  Buck couldn’t help but groan. “Level 1? But he was 17 when he…” Buck paused, looking towards Flint “... y’know.”

  “Yes. Well, a new soul has been called from the Root.” Evander said, circling Flint like a furry scientist. “It stands to reason that that soul would arrive weakened after being drained of all its Source. He is a clean slate, he should be Level 1.” His tiny chest puffed up. “And we get to shape him! This Revenant must begin its journey anew.”

  Flint’s eyes tracked Buck. Waiting. The undead jackalope’s stillness was somehow more unnerving than its movement.

  Evander’s clinical explanation echoed in Buck’s skull. Not only could the creatures and beasts of the Cracked Kingdoms be returned from the dead to serve alongside him, but so could the other Citizens he defeated. The implications made his temple throb.

  “So he won’t be able to do the whole… uh, summon fiery axes thing?” Buck asked, eyeing Flint’s tomahawk.

  “Unlikely.” Evander sniffed, pacing like a professor giving a lecture. “He will begin anew. What you have him do over the next 10 levels will influence his climb like any other Citizen. The difference being this one has access to The Gray.”

  “Access to The Gray? Evander. You need to be less cryptic; you know this is all new to me.”

  “Patience,” Evander chided, clearly savoring Buck’s frustration. “Your Attunement is a fascinating hiccup in the Roots design. All attunements, be it Fire or Ice, Light or Darkness, hells, even Metal and Wood to a certain degree, provide tangible [Abilities] for you to employ in your struggle within the Cracked Kingdoms.

  “But The Gray? It provides you an opportunity. You say you want to “save everyone.” Well, this is a step in the right direction. I wasn’t sure until I saw this Revenant rise, but The Gray is clearly a buffing and debuffing Attunement.”

  “Here we go again,” Buck thought. “More video game nonsense. Might as well start writing this down, or I’m gonna forget it immediately.”

  “Imagine it!.” Evander’s squeak hit glass-shattering octaves as he gestured wildly. “[Gray Mist] cloaking you, [Step Forward] phasing you through battlefields. Siphoning the strength of your enemies and providing it to your soldiers. A Wraith King leading an army of the reforged! It’s truly fascinating.”

  Buck watched the hamster’s manic pacing. His voice increased in volume until the very walls of the Apothecary rang with the squeaky soprano. The vision sounded grand, but was it true? At this point, he couldn’t see the vision. The Gray felt different—a hungry thing that nibbled at his edges each time he used it. Could he really wield it so freely?

  Then again, he could only assume, like with all things within the Cracked Kingdoms, it would come down to practice.

  “Alright, Flint,” Buck said, turning toward his hulking bodyguard. “We need to get you leveled up. Do you..have any idea how to fight?”

  The jackalope stared back at Buck. For three heartbeats, his newly restarted brain processed the question. Then—with sudden violence— he ripped the tomahawk from his belt. The blade gleamed dully under rotting leather wraps.

  “This,” Flint rasped.

  Buck’s grin spread like a crack in a dam, “Perfect. Let’s go rat hunting.”