2. Captivating the Hearts of the Dead

It had been a long time since Reinhardt saw that hateful color stain his blade—no, not since he himself had become a wraith.

The holy sword Caliber, which foretold the life or death of those it touched, was a sword crystallized from countless souls. Its true body lay buried somewhere in a grave with its master, and the same power flowed through this spectral version.

If holy Caliber turned red upon contact, it meant this gravekeeper was fated to die soon.

“Tsk, tsk. What a pity. Such a young lady…”

A voice screeched from behind.

“Pity? What pity? If she dies, she’ll join our side. What’s not to like?”

“Is that something to say?”

“Why not?”

“Only nobles who rendered great service to the Empire, or those with imperial sanction, can be interred here. A commoner couldn’t dream of it!”

“Oh—right.”

“If this young lady dies, the best she can hope for is one more coffin in the catacombs beneath the wells.”

“Poor thing. Such a hard fate for a young lass.”

The new gravekeeper was as good as doomed. Knights who found honor in aiding a lady in peril lost their steam.

“She’s not even fainting with us standing right here—she’s sleeping like a baby?”

“Captain! We finally get a proper gravekeeper and… she’s going to die soon? What a waste!”

Reinhardt, the captain, nodded. His subordinate had spoken the very words he himself wanted to say.

“Hm…”

Just then, the pink-haired gravekeeper began to stir.

“Eek!”

“She’s awake! Awake!”

In the same instant, the wraiths dove—behind statues, into barrows—vanishing in a blink. Even the dignified Reinhardt hid with indecorous speed.

“I thought I heard something?”

Rina blinked. She looked around, but saw no one.

“Yaaawn. Anyway, that nap helped.”

A slight chill raised gooseflesh on her arms; she rubbed them.

“Huh? When did this come off?”

She straightened the scarf that had slipped from her head.

“It really is quiet here. Not a soul around.”

Rina liked being alone. People meant more to worry over. Still, being alone in a cemetery this large felt… a little boring.

“If only there were a ghost or two, that’d be fun.”

The wraiths hiding behind the statuary smiled to themselves.

Passed! This gravekeeper’s a pass!

I pass her too!

She likes us?

She does! She’s pretty and not the least bit put off by us!

Silently, eagerly, the dead nodded.

“Time to get back to work.”

Rina took up the lamp she used for patrols.

“Nothing’s wrong. Maybe they were just trying to spook me.”

Mark had told her not to leave the guard post until dawn, warning her to be careful—as if a ghost might appear.

But there were no ghosts—no visitors at all—so things were blissfully slow.

And Rina didn’t believe in ghosts anyway. If losing someone hurts so much, wouldn’t it be a blessing to see them again, even as a ghost?

“Shall I take a look around?”

Following the dark path, Rina began her rounds. The wraiths shadowed her in secret, slipping out of her way with each step she took, observing.

“She’s off, she’s off!”

“She’s headed for the memorial!”

“Let’s follow!”

The central square opened, ringed with lovingly tended flowerbeds. Life-sized statues of knights stood in proud array.

In their midst reared a great memorial stone, engraved with a beautiful epitaph—honoring those who had given their lives in the battle against the Demon King.

Cherish the life you are given,
For death drives madness before it.

Close your eyes and the cursed piano will wail,
And the Demon King will strive to drive you mad.

Therefore strive to stay awake,
Lest the seeping madness take you.

Reading the inscription, Rina found herself imagining the valiant knights who must have felled the Demon King.

“So most of these graves belong to war heroes…”

Each headstone bore a different epitaph. Intrigued, Rina began reading them aloud.

“Oh—this one is Duke Giuseppe’s grave. ‘A man who devoted his life to the Empire’s prosperity’… What an admirable person, Your Grace.”

The wraith whose name had been spoken took to the new gravekeeper at once. She read the words carved on his stone—and greeted him!

He didn’t want this commendable young woman leaving the world any time soon.

Right. I should help.

Unseen by the others, he breathed a measure of his mana into her—hoping it might one day save her life.

“Lady Seraphine, Count’s daughter. ‘A lovely beauty, pride of her house with a fashion sense ahead of her time.’ Ahh, how marvelous must she have been to earn a line like that? I’m jealous.”

Lady Seraphine had never married—lived to ninety and died still called “Lady.” The curly-haired granny wraith heard the young keeper’s wistful murmur and felt her heart warmed.

What a darling keeper. I’ll protect her!

She, too, slipped mana into the girl.

“And this one is…”

Now fully awake—and curious, it being her first day—Rina went stone to stone, reading. If she memorized names and epitaphs, perhaps she’d learn the layout faster.

She was fine, she told herself, but in a place like this it was only natural to feel small. Reading aloud helped her forget the fear.

If I keep talking, it feels like someone’s with me.

Whatever her reason, the little habit sparked a wave of emotion among the dead.

Wraiths are the forgotten. To be called by name by the living is life itself for them.

So a young lady reading out hundreds of names, one by one—how could they not be enthralled?

“What an exemplary gravekeeper!”

“Indeed. She makes you want to help.”

And it wasn’t just the reading. Even with no one watching, Rina patrolled constantly.

From the guard post, at the faintest sound of a wild creature, she’d grab a spade or rake and hurry out.

“Diligent, isn’t she?”

“I’ll say! Steady as they come!”

The dead could not help but like her. No one wanted to let such a worthy human die.

So each time Rina passed their graves, they secretly poured a bit of mana into her—like tipping a favorite worker.

“She read my epitaph too! Thank you, child!”

“I’ll share some mana as well. You stay safe, now!”

For two full days, the wraiths’ entire attention fixed on Rina. They trailed after her in hushed, shuffling flocks.

Of course, whenever she sensed something and glanced back, they had to dive for cover. Not easy to hide so often—but it was fun in its way.

“Oh, Rina’s swapped shifts with that Mark fellow. Rina, I’m counting on you again today.”

“I’m playing ball with Grand Duke Sebastian’s team later. Best leave her some mana in advance.”

“I should too!”

By the third day it no longer depended on Rina’s rounds; the dead “checked in” and infused her as a matter of routine before returning to their usual amusements.

In time, this “mana-tipping” became a new custom of cemetery society.

And the pink-haired gravekeeper girl became the cherished mascot of the dead.

---

Blissfully unaware, Rina kept working. Now and then she fancied she heard words like “thank you” or “gift,” but each time she turned, there was nothing.

What if I did turn and actually locked eyes with a ghost?

The thought made her more anxious; she forced herself to ignore it.

“Meow.”

The black cat that sometimes visited the cemetery didn’t help her nerves.

Black fur, yellow eyes—adorable in daylight, perhaps, but at night in a graveyard? Not so cute.

She’d chased a runaway cat all the way here once, and now it felt like this cat was the one seeking her out—she saw it often.

“Right. That presence I felt earlier was probably kitty paw-steps. Here, kitty—come here!”

She tried befriending it with food once. The cat snorted and stalked past, as if to say, You offer a dead mouse to me? How dare you.

“Wow, even a cat snubs her! Poor thing. Rina, I’ll double your mana today!”

Far off, Grand Duke Sebastian’s disembodied head sailed into a stone goal again as he cried out—though Rina, of course, heard nothing.

No matter what she did, the dead found it endearing—and showed their affection by pouring mana into her.

A few possessed formidable reserves and transferred huge amounts at once. Even the staid Reinhardt stood among them.

In truth, he gave the most—slipping it to her when his knights weren’t looking.

“Rina, may this mana aid your future…”

The mana of the dead belongs to the dead; they had nothing to lose by giving lavishly.

Even a handful from each—day after day from hundreds of wraiths—would swell the girl’s power to something immeasurable.

Most crucial of all: the gravekeeper was alive. A living person’s mana can grow without bound, according to her potential.

“But is it really safe to inject this much?”

Such transfers can be dangerous. Too much and a person’s temperament might warp; sickness—or death—could follow.

If Rina showed even a hint of ailing, the dead had resolved to stop at once.

But she remained perfectly fine—proof of astonishing potential.

“I cannot predict how far your power will grow…”

Even if knives were drawn or harm attempted somewhere, she would have more than enough to save her own life.

So, in secret, he pressed holy Caliber to her body now and then. He, too, wanted Rina to remain in this cemetery for a long, long time.

But the sword showed him only one color, always the same.

The color of blood.

To be continued.