"Thanks for everything. If you ever need help... come find us at the Adventurer's Guild."Sylwen's gentle voice rang out as Mortis stood before a large wooden building marked by a crossed shield and sword above its doorway.
Mortis gave a small nod, his calm, cold voice filled with sincerity."I'll remember that. Thank you... for everything."
With their farewells said, Mortis strode gracefully into the heart of Phon Town — a vast, vibrant city. The main road was paved with smooth granite, flanked by shops of every kind catering to adventurers and townsfolk alike: weapon stores displaying gleaming longswords, enchanted shields, and shining axes; potion shops with colorful elixirs lined like jewels; grill stalls sending plumes of smoke and the scent of sizzling meat into the air; and tailors offering cloaks and garments for all trades.
Yet among the bustle, a man clad in full bone armor with a massive direwolf-fur cloak drew more than a few stares.
"Who is that...?" whispered a boy, pausing mid-bite of his bread.
"Look at that armor... like something out of a storybook," murmured a young woman, eyes fixed on him."Probably a high-rank adventurer," another man guessed.
Mortis paid them no mind. He felt the stares, but strangely, he felt at peace — the everyday life around him made him feel, for a fleeting moment, like he was part of this world... even if he knew he wasn't.
As noon passed, Mortis stopped walking and lightly stroked the bony chin beneath his helmet.
"I... don't have a single coin."
It was a truth that hadn't occurred to him. Currency was essential in the human world — even the greatest of mages needed food, shelter, and expenses.
He began looking for work.
From shop to forge, from inn to eatery, none dared hire him — not with his appearance like a mercenary from the underworld.
Until finally, he found a medium-sized lumberyard, busy with workers hauling thick logs into a warehouse.
The owner — a wiry, dark-skinned man with a tangled beard — looked startled at the sight of Mortis's bone armor and massive fur cloak.
"Uh... is there something I can help you with?" the man asked, subtly stepping back.
"I'm looking for work. I heard you needed laborers," Mortis said plainly.
The owner eyed him from head to toe, then gave a hesitant nod."We do. We need strong arms to help cut timber in a nearby village."
After a brief conversation, and Mortis's firm assurance of his unnatural strength, the man agreed to hire him for the task.
"But you'll need to bring your own axe. We're all out."
Mortis nodded and departed — his new mission: find an axe.
He headed toward a well-known weapons shop, but his gaze caught a nearby armor store. He remembered — perhaps he could sell the Alpha Direwolf fur cloak for gold.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of hot iron and leather. The shopkeeper, a heavyset man in a leather apron, looked up and nearly dropped his tools at the sight of Mortis.
"Here to repair your gear? Or looking to buy?"
"I've something to sell," Mortis replied, pointing at his cloak — the shimmering silver-gray fur with hidden armor-like scales on the inner lining.
"Wait... is that Alpha Direwolf fur?!" The man's eyes went wide as he ran his hands over the dense fibers.
"Resists blades and arrows... and even offers some fire resistance. I'll give you... 20 gold coins?"
Just then, the shopkeeper bumped into a table, knocking over a small potted plant.
Mortis instinctively reached out to catch it — and then...
Whooshhhh...
A wave of freezing energy surged from his skeletal palm. It swept through the air and across the wooden floor, freezing everything it touched — forming a trail of ice that caught the falling pot mid-air, suspending it in crystal clarity.
Silence fell upon the store.
"W-Was that... ice magic?" the shopkeeper whispered.
Mortis turned, equally shocked, scrambling for an excuse.
"It's not magic. It's... residual energy from the Direwolf's head embedded in the cloak. It occasionally... acts up like that."
The shopkeeper swallowed hard — then suddenly grinned."A masterpiece like that... I'll give you 50 gold coins!"
Mortis placed the cloak on the counter. It thudded heavily, the wood creaking under the weight.
"It's... that heavy?" the shopkeeper gasped, barely able to lift it.
After receiving his gold, Mortis headed to a general goods store and purchased an axe — thick wooden handle, lightly enchanted blade for easier woodcutting.
He stopped next at a cloak stall — a simple setup with a canvas roof and well-made items on display.
"Looking for something, adventurer?" the seller, an old woman with white hair, asked with a smile.
"I need a cloak. Black. Durable. Windproof," Mortis replied in a calm, firm voice.
The woman nodded and fetched a pure black cloak from the back. "This one's special. The hood's enchanted — no wind can tear it off once worn. It's water- and dust-resistant too. You seem like the quiet type, am I right?"
Mortis tried it on. The hood snugged comfortably without feeling tight. He tilted his head; the breeze passed — the hood didn't move.
"It works."
"Ten gold coins," she said.
Mortis didn't haggle. He handed over the coins and left silently, leaving the old woman smiling after him."Strange man... but he pays well," she muttered.
He passed a small plaza, watching and listening, gradually understanding the town's currency system.
"Chicken eggs... 5 copper each. So 2 equals 1 silver coin. And 10 silver make 1 gold...?" he murmured to himself.
But before he could go much farther, his eyes dropped to his hand — a pale-skinned hand laced with faint black veins, like vines of shadow beneath the surface.
He remembered the moment in the store — when he reached out and the ice wave erupted.
"That... came from me? But how?"
He would've frowned, if he still had the muscles for it. The chill still lingered on his palm, as if shards of ice clung to it.
"That power… came from the Alpha Direwolf? Or…"
A familiar voice echoed in his mind — clear and commanding, as though it had been listening all along.
"It is your power.""The power of darkness that lies within you, Mortis."
Mortis paused, gazing at his hand again as he flexed his fingers.The wind passed. He closed his eyes, focused — and a faint, cold black mist began to form from his fingertips… thin, but chilling.
"I can actually do it..."
"That is what I have given you.""Dark power is not created from nothing. It imitates — adapts — and transforms."
Mortis began to understand. He recalled how the Alpha Direwolf had unleashed its freezing breath on his undead — and how his body had absorbed… learned… mimicked it.
"I… mimicked its power?"
"Yes.""And if you wish… you can mimic other forms of magic too."
"All you need to do is 'see' it or 'touch' it with your own eyes.""Your power will replicate its essence—and transform it into your own."
Mortis murmured softly as the mist slowly faded away."I can… mimic spells…""If I've seen it before… I can use it?"
"Not just mimic—adapt.""Flames might become frost. Shadows might turn solid. Light could become piercing thorns.""That is the essence of dark magic—magic for those who see the world not as 'what it is,' but as 'what it could be.'"
Mortis opened his eyes as if seeing the world more clearly than ever.He felt as though he had just taken another step in understanding himself.
But then—
A woman's voice rang out above the bustling market noise.
"Mister shopkeeper~ Can I have one more bunch of carrots, please~?"
That voice… it was far too clear.
Mortis stopped in his tracks. A heart that should no longer exist began to pound—or at least, he felt a rush of warmth ignite in his chest.
He turned to look.
A young woman in a simple cloak, slightly dust-stained, was smiling brightly. Her long golden-brown hair reached her mid-back, loosely tied. And her large, honey-colored eyes—eyes he could never forget.
Fern.
The girl he once saved from ghouls in a cave.
She was still alive.
And she was here.
Mortis stood frozen in the middle of the market, gazing at her with a surge of emotions—joy, confusion, and something in between.