Felicity's sharp eyes lingered on the new gear now adorning Merek—his shadow-draped coat and sleek boots. Her gaze narrowed.
Beside her, Fred's eyes flickered—not with awe, but with something malicious. Greed.
"Are the essence cores still in there?" he asked, voice light but too quick, too eager.
The moment the question left his lips, a few students perked up. Whispers started. They all knew it—essence cores from that many monsters would be enough to boost their strength, increasing their chances of survival. Split evenly or not, they'd all get a piece.
Merek's reply cut through the hopeful tension like a blade.
"I ate them all."
Silence fell. Mouths parted in disbelief.
Felicity blinked, amused. While Nero seemed taken aback.
Seeing their faces, Merek's eyes chilled. His voice lowered into something colder, sharper.
"You expect me to risk my life down there, bleed for every inch, and hand over essence cores like candy? If you wanted one… you should've stayed."
The words hit harder than any bullet. Several students looked away, ashamed.
Professor David remained silent, but a faint smirk touched his lips. Approval without a word.
"The rules are simple," Merek continued. "Keep what you earn."
He turned to Felicity, nodding toward her back, where a black backpack with the stitched face of a white rabbit was. A strange, almost childish contrast to the indifferent expression she wore. White paint splashes, like art done in haste, marked her dark jacket.
"I don't see anyone asking her for what she earned."
Felicity raised an eyebrow, but didn't speak. She didn't need to. That indifferent expression Fred, however, clenched his jaw, and the greedy gleam in his eyes dulled. He knew he wouldn't win this fight. Not now. Not with Professor David silent and Felicity unopposed.
And certainly not against the man who came back from a sewer full of monsters—with new items and increased strength.
"It will soon be nightfall. We need to find shelter." the professor said, as he lifted some students to their feet.
….
After what felt like an hour of excruciating pain—one that gnawed at his nerves and pulsed with every heartbeat—Merek finally found himself in the gymnasium of a high school.
The space was dim, the air stale with dust and the faint lingering odor of sweat and polish. Technically, they hadn't gone far from where they emerged, but to Merek, it felt like a lifetime had passed.
Dragging himself into the storage room nestled behind the bleachers, he collapsed to the ground, back against the cold wall. His breath came in ragged intervals, sweat glistening on his brow, soaking into the collar of his coat. Around him, silent and watchful, stood his undead. Their glowing eyes flickered in the gloom like lanterns in fog.
To them, his pain must have been puzzling—perhaps even irrelevant. They could take swords to the gut and keep walking, lose limbs and keep fighting. But for him? A single slap could send searing pain screaming through his brain. This body, for all its growing power, was still made of flesh.
Merek winced as he glanced down at the deep gash on his thigh, dark and swollen. The edges were angry and red. His sigh echoed off the concrete walls as he tilted his head back, resting it against the wall, eyes drifting up to the cracked ceiling tiles above.
He summoned his status.
A shimmering blue panel unfolded before him like a sheet of light.
Name: Merek Solen
Title: Death's Victor
Level: 14
Job: Weaver
Job Skills: Soul Vision | Soul Bind | Weaving | Veilwalk | Verdict
Acquired Skills: Telekinesis
Condition: Badly Injured.
Before he could linger on it, a sudden knock rapped against the door.
He blinked, turning his head slowly.
"Merek. It's me."
Professor David's voice was clear and calm. Merek raised a finger and gestured toward Yuki. The armoured undead stepped forward without a sound and swung the door open.
To Merek's mild surprise, David wasn't alone. Felicity followed him inside, her expression unreadable, her presence cool and composed. The moment the door shut behind them, both their eyes scanned the undead looming in the corners—silent sentinels of steel.
David crouched before Merek, eyeing the wound.
"How bad is it?"
"I think it's infected," Merek said flatly, lips twitching in pain.
The professor gave a small chuckle. "Of course it is. You fell into sewer water. You stink."
A half-smile tugged at Merek's lips. "Hey, I stink because I fought to protect your students."
"We both know you had your own reasons for staying behind," David replied, standing. "Either way, we found some clean clothes in the locker room. You're going to have to change."
He dropped a neatly folded black shirt and a pair of pants beside him.
"Felicity's one of my best students. She has something that'll handle your wounds. Being immobilized is no different from a death sentence."
With that, he turned and walked out, leaving them alone with the undead.
Merek looked up at her. She was stunning—alluringly so. Without the cap shading her features, her beauty was almost disarming. Delicate yet firm features framed by golden hair, and piercing, distant blue eyes that betrayed nothing.
If she'd ever been a celebrity, it wouldn't surprise him. And yet, he couldn't recall ever seeing a woman like her anywhere.
She crouched beside him and unzipped her backpack, pulling out a thick roll of bandages—stark white and faintly glowing.
"These will disinfect and accelerate the healing. They respond to your energy."
"I see," Merek murmured.
Without hesitation, he peeled off his coat and sweatshirt, revealing a torso carved from lean muscle and taut scars. He wasn't a bodybuilder—nothing grotesquely large—but there was a quiet strength in his form. The kind gained from two years of inteny manual labour ever since his late parent's funds depleted.
Felicity leaned in, beginning with his chest. Her hands were cool and featherlight, fingers moving with the precision of someone who'd done this before. The bandage clung to him, the ends fusing like stitched silk once she circled his torso.
Then she moved to his thigh.
"You'll feel itchy first," she said, her voice calm, almost clinical. "Don't scratch."
Her eyes flicked to his hand—hovering a few inches from the wound, fingers twitching.
"Seriously. Don't. A cold wave will follow, and it won't stop until the wound is completely sealed. You won't like it, but it means it's working. Don't move around too much."
Her touch was lingering, almost making him yearn for it again. She finished the wrapping, stood, zipped her bag without another word a d left.
As the door closed behind her, Merek exhaled slowly, staring up at the ceiling again.
The chill had started to creep in.