Adrian sat hunched over the three Scriptures, their presence heavy as tombstones.
"I've already done the math," he muttered. "Now it's just the screaming part."
He stared at the Scripture of the Hollow Grave — that skin-bound slab with bone clasps and quiet rot curling from its pages.
"You're the simplest, aren't you? Death doesn't lie. It just empties."
His voice grew quieter.
"Dig the grave. Swallow the name. Whisper for forty-eight hours… until something whispers back."
He exhaled.
"I don't even need to pretend. Just give up."
He looked down. His hand hovered over the cover.
"You would make it easy. Let me stop feeling. Stop hoping"
Then his hand recoiled. As if burned.
"But that's the trick, isn't it? You don't kill me. You preserve me. Just long enough to make me useful."
He turned to the Scripture of Fractured Truth.
The glass was cracked, but intact. The title flickered between names and nothing.
"You scare me the most," Adrian whispered.
"Not because of the pain. Not even the face thing."
A breath.
"But because I know I could do it."
His reflection shifted in the glass. A dozen versions of himself blinked back — laughing, crying, indifferent.
"Pick a lie. Any lie. Pretend hard enough… and I will become it."
His voice cracked, only slightly.
"I've done that before. Everyone does. But this time the lie won't stop."
He clenched his jaw. Quiet.
Then:
"And what happens if the lie is something I want to be true?"
His gaze finally settled on the Scripture of Knowledge.
Golden thread. Smooth surface. A false promise of elegance.
"You're the polite one," he said, narrowing his eyes.
"All riddles and candlelight. But you demand more than either of them."
He reached toward it, tapped the front with two fingers.
"Blindness. Silence. Thirty days alone with the truth that I am… ignorant."
He chuckled.
"You'd think after 110 years of suffering, I'd be past pride."
Then, more bitterly:
"But I'm not. Not really. I still want to understand."
He leaned back, voice rising just slightly.
"One book wants to erase me"
"One wants to me to know my place"
"And one wants to remake me in to someone else "
He spread his arms, as if presenting to an invisible jury.
"What a menu. Shall I be a corpse, a reflection, or a question?"
No one answered. Only silence — heavy and waiting.
Adrian crouched beside the three Scriptures, hands resting on his knees.
"Let's try this again. No emotion. Just facts."
He opened the Scripture of the Hollow Grave, scanning the first page.
"Rank 12: Undertaker. Delays a soul from escaping. Prepares corpses for future necromancy. Can sense death and bind enemies by increasing their spiritual weight."
He nodded.
"Defensive and supportive. Low direct damage, but excellent field control."
He flipped to the next section. Only the titles were there.
"Rank 11: Embalmer. Rank 10: Forensic Technician. Rank 9: Medical Examiner.
Rank 8: Necromancer."
He stared a few seconds longer.
"Clear direction. Each step builds on corpse manipulation. By Rank 8, I'd probably be commanding an army of dead."
He shut the book.
"Not subtle. Not flexible. But reliable. Especially against human enemies."
He turned to the Scripture of Knowledge.
"Rank 12: Acolyte. Pick one element. Firebolt, Ice Spike, Lightning Dart — small-scale destructive spells. Range capped at twenty meters."
He tapped the page.
"Also gets rune traps, scanning ability, and casting focus."
He flipped to the next section and squinted at the rank names.
"Rank 11: Senior Researcher. Rank 10: Elemental Arcanist. Rank 9: Alchemist. Rank 8: Elemental Wizard."
A short silence.
"Yeah. This is the combat path. It's obvious. Elemental power, probably increasing range, damage, and versatility every step."
He ran a hand through his hair.
"Even from just the names, I can tell it ramps up fast. Researcher to Wizard in four steps. That's a short road to battlefield-level threat."
Then he opened the Scripture of Fractured Truth.
"Rank 12: Psychologist. Reads mental strain, detects lies, reflects emotions back at the target. Also has some kind of calming projection — a fake peace that becomes real temporarily"
His eyes narrowed.
"Good for interrogation. Maybe destabilization. Not ideal in a straight fight."
He turned the page.
"Rank 11: Cognitive Architect. Rank 10: Narrative Dissector. Rank 9: Psychiatrist.
Rank 8: High-Functioning Sociopath."
He let out a breath. No smile.
"I understand the other one but what the fuck is High-Functioning Sociopath"
He looked at all three books again.
"So…"
"Hollow Grave gives me soul and corpse control. Long setup, probably medium risk, high reliability."
"Knowledge gives me elemental firepower. Most destructive. Scales fast."
"Fractured Truth gives me manipulation and psychological pressure. Slower growth, but harder to counter once it escalates."
He sat still, voice quiet but steady.
"One hits the body. One hits the battlefield. One hits the mind."
Another pause.
"And I don't know how long I'll survive with just Rank 12."
He looked down at his hands. Then back at the books.
"I need to choose soon."
He the turn to the scripture of the hollow grave again
"You make sense."
He placed a hand on the cover. It was cold.
"Death is everywhere. Corpses are always available. Soul energy doesn't run out. Your power doesn't rely on belief or illusion. Just death."
"And there's plenty of that."
His fingers traced the bone clasp.
"I wouldn't need people. Wouldn't need trust. Just tools. Resources. Flesh and spirit."
He pulled it closer.
"I could be safe. Untouchable. The dead don't betray you."
A breath.
"...I could control the battlefield without lifting a hand."
He almost opened it again.
But something itched in the back of his head. Not fear. Not hesitation.
Instinct.
He froze.
Then pulled his hand back.
"You're too perfect."
The words were quiet. Careful.
"Too smooth. Too clean a path."
He looked at it like one might look at a beautifully wrapped box found in the middle of a battlefield.
"The Vow demands silence. Isolation. Submission to death"
"But death is broken in this world. The Law is shattered. The throne is empty."
He stood, taking a single step back.
"So who am I really making a vow to?"
No answer. Only silence.
His eyes narrowed.
"Not doing it. Not until I know who's listening."
He turned away from the Hollow Grave, leaving it closed — still, quiet, and waiting.
The Hollow Grave was still where he left it. Closed. Calm.
Adrian didn't remember bringing it closer again.
He blinked. His fingers were already brushing the clasps — the yellowed bone cool against his skin.
"I said no," he muttered.
But his voice sounded… distant. Flat.
He sat down in front of it again.
This time, slower.
"Delay the soul. Prepare the corpse. Bind them with their own death. It's clean. It's efficient."
He wasn't thinking now — not like before. His mind felt quiet. Too quiet. No comparisons. No risk assessments.
Just inevitability.
"The Vow is simple. I can do it. I already know how."
His hand moved to the cover. He opened it without resistance.
The pages stared up at him. Familiar. Too familiar. They weren't waiting — they were expecting.
"Where I walk, graves open…" he began to whisper.
He didn't remember starting the words.
"And life remembers its—"
His eyes widened.
His left hand — on its own — was reaching for his satchel. Moving to retrieve the keepsake.
"No."
But it kept moving.
Something was wrong.
His right hand darted to his belt. No thought. No hesitation.
The bone dagger came out in a clean motion.
"No."
He drove it straight through his left palm.
White-hot pain exploded up his arm. His breath caught in his throat.
The spell — whatever it was — shattered.
He fell backward, eyes wide, chest heaving. Blood spilled freely from the wound.
The dagger clattered beside him.
He stared at the ceiling of the Death Temple, shaking, cold sweat beading on his forehead.
"…That wasn't me."
No one answered.
But the Scripture of the Hollow Grave was closed again.
Exactly as he'd left it.
Adrian sat slumped against the cold stone wall, hand bleeding, chest rising and falling like he'd just sprinted through fire.
The dagger lay near his feet, stained red. His left hand trembled. Blood dripped from the hole in his palm and pooled at his side.
He didn't speak for a long time.
When he finally did, his voice was hoarse.
"What the hell was that?"
No answer. Just the hush of the Death Temple — ancient and indifferent.
He looked at the Hollow Grave.
It hadn't moved. It hadn't changed.
But now, it felt wrong.
Not dangerous. Not threatening.
Wrong.
"I said no," he said again, louder this time.
His fingers curled into a fist, pain flaring sharp and bright through his injured hand. It grounded him.
"I meant it."
He pushed himself up with effort, breath sharp between clenched teeth.
"Whatever that was… I'm done."
He turned his back on the Hollow Grave. Not slowly. Not reverently.
"Hard pass. You don't get to crawl into my head."
He throw the book as hard as he can.
Then gave it a middle finger.