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Chapter 3 - The Corpse Collector

"The dead are rising!" the boy lets out a shrill cry. 

"Boy, you better not be playing!"

A ragged silhouette limps forth — wreathed in smoke and bloom.

Thick leather boots crunch cinders beneath deliberate, heavy steps. Weighed down by the clinking crude implements at his side. His stained patchwork of cargo pants, a legacy, each seam recounting years of trudging through mud and mire. With hair grey as grave-dust, wild and unkempt despite his middle age

He lights a stubby cigarette with slow ceremony, squinting through the purple haze.

He halts before the boy, ruffling the curls of his brown. The touch is not gentle, but purposeful — like an artist correcting their brushstrokes. The boy flinches, discomfort etched into every line of his face, but he doesn't pull away. Instead, he mutters a stiff, begrudging, "Thanks, dad."

"Yer the dead one, eh?"

Dead? Hah. That was moments ago. Now I'm alive, whether the world likes it or not. 

"Dead? Can't you see I'm alive, old man?" I snap at that moment, rising stiffly and brushing the grime from my tattered clothes.

Then the man turns to face me. His lone eye narrows beneath the weathered shadow of his brow. There is no kindness in that gaze — only the weight of a man who has measured others not in words, but in ability and found most of them lacking. I've felt this pressure before… in the beasts who walked amongst us men.

"Yer a corpse — I've seen it with my own eye!" He responds accordingly, yanking up his cracked leather eyepatch as if verifying reality itself.

"The dead risin'... ain't never been nothin' natural about it."

A hollow socket stares out — dry, empty, yet somehow still watching. Observing me in all my inadequacy.

If this bastard saw me dead, why is he trying to talk to me now? Is he Bluffing? No… I can't risk it if he is. How the hell do I convince this miser?

I know. my hands clasp. This trick always works.

A haunting smile creeps across my cracked lips. My once-trembling fingers rub together like a merchant about to hawk miracle tonics to the elderly and needy.

"I was merely sleeping."

"..."

He blinks.

"Sleeping… dead corpse? That's a new one. Even the Bloodborne Ascendancy Sect never came up with that nonsense. You're spinning porkies — and I know it"

Sect you say, I understand now, hehehe my ticket.

I lean in, voice low but steady, only determination in my gaze.

"Look here, sir. It's a rare condition. Born with it, actually. They call it the Nine Serenities Spiritual Body. When I'm in deep meditation, there's no pulse. No breath. Easy mistake to make. Mistakes like yours happen all the time. I almost forgave you… but then I hear you slandering my good name."

His eye darkens.

"Nine Serenity? Sounds like some fancy cultivation talk. You sure you ain't just a filthy corpse-eater?"

I shrug, feigning innocence.

"If I were a simple ghoul, as you so obnoxiously claim, then how come I'm here talking to you?"

Checkmate. This simple man is in the palm of my hands.

"Why didn't you say so earlier?" He smiles with an unusual, toothy grin, then flicks his cigarette onto the very mound I'd clawed my way from. It catches instantly — purple flame writhing, reaching into the night like some long-forgotten nightmare, the long-silent dead cackle, mocking every effort I'd made to escape.

"Name's Jimson Plank, and this little scuttler is Timothy Wood."

He slaps the boy's back with enough force to jolt him forward Tim nearly trips, scowls, muttering a defiant, "Sorry," before walking off.

"Old man, don't think I've forgiven you. You almost burnt me alive. I need compensation for… emotional damages." I flick my fingers, mimicking the universal sign for money."

"Here."

He pulls out a stone and drops onto it, setting down a cup with a practiced hand.

From his belt, he unclips a flask — old, dented, but polished where the fingers groove.

"I save this for special occasions. You're lucky… night," he mutters, glancing around as if checking the time, then pours with reverence; the amber liquid catches the firelight, glistening in molten memory

He rests a cup on the stone beside with a pair of old worn boots, knuckles rapping the boulder with a dense sigh.

A peace offering. Or a bribe? Shrewd old man. It's his personal flask; Either way, I should take it. If it really is poison, shame on me, I guess.

As I sit next to him, putting on the boots he gently kisses a pendant in his hand and places it on an obelisk nearby, holding it there for three seconds. A ritual, maybe. Some sign of respect for the dead. I make a mental note to remember it.

"So, what is it you do here?"

"Ta-ta-ta."

He clicks his tongue, wagging it provocatively, and gestures at the cup in my hand.

Our once-full cups clink with hollow resonance.

Carefully, he places his empty cup on top of the flat column with a bowed head —

That stone again? A mural? No...

An unmarked grave. For the dead, I presume.

We sit there sinking in the remembrance. 

He lights another cigarette, shielding the flame from the wind. 

A long inhale. 

He leans back, eyes tracing the ash that drifts like dirty snowflakes—filthy, heavy. Loitering. 

He lets out a long exhale.

"Now you're going to tell me?" I raise my voice, eyes locked on him.

"We're burning corps piles, as you can see," he replies curtly, voice soft as ever.

We sit and watch the purple flame burn. Crackling, humming in the background.

"Why—?"

"To honour the fallen," he interrupts.

"You see, this is how it is here."

He takes another drag, pausing, building suspense for some long-winded tale.

Could this man be any slower?

"Listen here — when people die, sometimes… they rise. And it's our job to prevent that from happening."

"Do you know why? That doesn't sound normal," I say, leaning forward, curious.

"Do I get paid to know why?"

He squints at me, tapping his cigarette in my direction.

"You… What's yer name, young man?"

I glance down and scavenge around the tattered sleeve of my shirt. Embroidered there, just barely, in fine thread:

"Desmond," I say.

The man shakes his head, incredulous, but continues.

"Well then, sir… 'Desmond.' To answer your question real, polite, and proper — I once heard someone say something about demonic qi buildup. Makes areas near battlefields inhospitable to those... higher up. All I really know is — pays extremely well." He lets out a hollow laugh.

"From the sound of it, you don't like cultivators," I mutter under my breath.

He holds a singular finger to his lips and lowers his voice.

"You mustn't let them hear you talking like that — or I might just have to add you to the pile."

He gestures forward.

In it, Tim, struggling with the cart, hauls another load feeding the fire, raw. The corpses, stiff with post mortis, land with sickening rhythm — skulls clanking, limbs scattering with the meaty weight of butcher's refuse.

Pound. Pu-pound. Pound. Pu-pound.

"That sound!" I squeal — but before I can finish, he shushes me.

With a wet nose and puffy eyes, I watch as the last lick of my hope for compensation as it pours out into the cracked cup — of which I take a sip of brew. His head slowly nods, arm resting on my neck, whispering sweet nothings into my ear, whilst gesturing forward as if introducing me to a show.

"It's beautiful," he breathes softly, air a light feather, tickling my ear, enticing me.

I cross my arms, agitated.

This man has no morals. Hand on my shoulder — what am I, some school hooligan in need of spiritual guidance? Tries to burn me one minute, comfort me the next.

Tsk. Well at least his embrace is somewhat... comforting. It's not all bad.

He gently clears his throat.

And just like that, I see it…

The smoke plumes skyward before the wind claims it — dragging it over the cliff's edge like a funeral shroud torn from the pyre. Ash trails behind in endless grey streams, cascading down into the abyssal beneath.

"What in the… what!" I exclaim, brows furrowing, mouth open like a tin-can.

The stone rolls beneath his weight, tilting back as he folds his arms — a crooked smile splitting his wrinkled face, eyes gleaming with amusement at my reaction.

"First time, huh… Well, we call it the Great Expanse. Few of us left out here, so the name just stuck."

What a cool name. I glance down, my hand twitching in quiet agreement.

"Might be wise to take something fer that" Jimson mutters.

As I'm about to explain, we hear it—

Distant howls reverberate across the nocturnal aether—wolves and nameless entities alike, all entwined in a singular mournful lament. It is a sound both primal and profane in nature… deep, guttural, and steeped in drooling hunger.

He stands, packing up briskly.

"They hunt in the morning."

"What does"

"Few have seen them and told the tale, all we know is they are the 'prowlers', stuff of nightmares so the folks say"

"Sounds spooky, good thing It's… night," I gesture up, nose snorting.

"It's always dark around these parts." 

"Oh" I look down scratching my nose

He pauses, looking over the cliff edge into a chasm of swirling darkness.

"Then where—?"

"Settlers' Camp. Six-hour trip, give or take. Gotta be quick or else."

He stands, slinging a sack over his shoulder, nodding to himself.

"First and only town run by us normal folk."

He whistles sharp, fingers carving circles through the stale air.

"Timmy-boy! Pack up, we're done here!"

He takes a step, then turns back and leads my fumbled trudge toward the carriage, as I play with his eyepatch.

I was wrong! This man might be an angel cast down from the heavens, sent to guide me 

An old dog — scarred and grey-furred — trails behind the boy as we climb into the wagon. The dog leaps up and settles on the front bench, leaving me and the boy to sit opposite each other in the back. His fingers dancing over the crude hatchet's haft, eyes sharp fangs boring through me with silent venom.

The cart shudders forward, 

"It might be useless," the man pipes up from the front, "but us morts need at least some protection from threats" His grip tightens around a torch, lightning flickers from the corner of the torchlight, his eye straight to me.

"'Mort?'" I burp. "Never ever heard of it."

He barks out a hoarse wheezing laugh.

"Bwahaha; Mort's just what they call us. You Cultivators, that is. Short for 'mortal.' But it also sounds like Yonk shit, and they can't get enough of it. I guess it's kinda funny."

My lips twitch, the laugh clawing its way up my throat—I try to bite it back, but it's no use

"Yonk… shit!" I chortle before looking back at him guiltily. "Sorry." I hang my head low, throat twitching under heavy breath.

"It's fine." He chuckles bitterly. "From your eyes, we probably look even more useless than yonk mort. And ain't nothing we can do about it."

I tilt my head. "So… what's yonk?"

He jerks his chin toward the front. Two creatures strain against the harness, dragging the cart onward—hulking shapes, like bulls, but not quite and much, much faster.

"Them's a yonk."

He pats the side rail and adds, almost fondly, "Cindy and Samuel. Word of warning make sure you never disrespect the yonk."

"Aye, fine… all hail teh yonk then," I mutter, sarcastically.

"Haha ain't that the truth" you weren't supposed to agree with that, Jimson.

Silence hangs for a moment, the cart shaking forward.

He glances back at me, eyes narrowing slightly.

"Say... you're not from around here, huh?"

"Where is here huh… nowhere; all I know is, you almost burnt me, alive—"

"Pft. Yer, right, sorry about that." He waves a hand dismissively.

"But that hurt me. In here." I slam my chest exasperatedly. "I saw him again, death—he was mean to me" I let out a high-pitched wail.

"I'm lucky you're so nice to me, or else I don't know what I would've done," I sob, shuddering at the thought.

"I understand, I understand. No more questions offered, no beatings received, right? Ain't that right, Timothy?"

The boy's grip loosens slightly. His stare softens — not by much, but enough.

"We'll just take ya back to the city. You can tell whatever higher-ups you answer too, that we took good care of you. Don't need none of your yonk business."

Awkward silence returns. The boy Staring. Hard. Like he wants to say something but won't — afraid his father might get angry.

What should I say? I usually enjoy silence, but now that I'm in front of people again, I want to speak — to say something.

I glance down at my hand. It jitters, urging me: Go on... do it, say something. I dare ya.

I hiccup

"So… you come here often?" I blurt out

"No."

"..."

"..."

Flat. Dead. Tossed to the pile and burned. The conversation is over before it begins.

My gut wrenches… It's Shame

I curl onto my side, embarrassed as I retreat under the ragged veil of the burlap quilt, woven for the dead.

Cold, Hungry, Tired. I close my eyes. 

Darkness welcoming me.

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