"It's a scroll."
Hearing how his subordinates died, the leader's raspy whisper echoed eerily.
"A scroll? That's impossible," Khajiit muttered in disbelief.
Though his body still felt weak after being resurrected, his mind had never been clearer. The moment of death, the face of the middle-aged man—no, the magic—was etched into his memory.
He had initially suspected it was a scroll, but dismissed it.
That was a third-tier angel.
The highest-level scroll technology known in any country was still at tier three. There were very few capable of crafting such scrolls, and those were strictly controlled, considered wartime strategic assets for magic guilds or nations.
Moreover, magic released through a scroll was always slightly weakened.
Khajiit had heard rumors that the Slane Theocracy was experimenting with fourth-tier scrolls, but their success—or failure—was beyond the knowledge of someone like him.
"Don't be fooled by appearances."
"The third-tier scroll may be rare, but not as rare as you believe. Gah-di-di-di~"
The leader chuckled, a cruel and dry laugh resonating with dark energy.
"In fact, the Slane Theocracy began developing fifth-tier scrolls a century ago. The fourth-tier ones—they succeeded long ago."
A hundred years ago?
Khajiit's thoughts reeled.
That was before even his great-grandfather had been born. He could barely remember his mother, let alone grasp the scope of history he had just heard.
This... was the true power of the world.
"You're quite foolish."
"You didn't even realize your opponent only used two spells the entire time. You don't even know what he looks like."
There was mocking disdain in the voice.
"But since I brought you back, you'll serve me now. A fitting fate for someone so short-sighted."
"Yes..." Khajiit bowed his head low, crawling upright. His gaze swept across the decaying, death-soaked landscape. "Where... is this?"
"'Fear.'"
The leader uttered a single word, then turned, stepping into the heart of the undead land.
The Next Day — Veil's Tailor Shop
Two streets away from the Adventurer's Guild stood a modest tailor shop with a plain sign. Yet, among adventurers, the name Old Veil carried significant weight. His work, while expensive, was known for both quality and practicality.
Inside, Minori stood before a tall mirror, inspecting his new attire with quiet satisfaction.
A pure white priest-style robe hung from his shoulders—shortened to avoid trailing, cinched at the waist to retain mobility. Underneath was a sleek, black combat outfit: close-fitting, breathable, and ready for action at any moment.
After over a month in the Tob Forest, Minori's hair had grown long and ragged. He had trimmed it slightly but left it otherwise untouched.
The contrast gave him a gentle and unassuming appearance—perfect for a faith-based caster.
"Does it meet your expectations?" Veil asked with professional calm, a leather apron over his chest and gray hair neatly combed back.
"It's excellent," Minori replied honestly.
Veil didn't show emotion at the praise. He had heard it many times before. After a moment's hesitation, he added, "The cuffs are a bit loose, aren't they?"
Indeed, the cuffs of Minori's white outer robe draped over his hands completely—unfit for drawing a weapon or quick movement.
"That's by design," Minori said with a faint smile, flicking his sleeves.
The loose cuffs would conceal his hands when using items from his inventory or drawing a scroll.
"Ah, I thought as much," Veil said. "Still, I made a small adjustment. There are hidden buttons on the shoulders—you can pull the sleeves back and fasten them there if needed."
Minori raised an eyebrow, then examined the seam. The button was almost invisible, sewn seamlessly into the fabric. A brilliant touch.
"I'm impressed. Are the rest ready?"
"As requested, I made three more sets. Four in total. Six gold coins per set."
"Twenty-four, then," Minori muttered, handing over the coins without hesitation. He still had over 600 gold, plus the value of items he'd yet to sell—like the Shadow Staff and the Bone Necklace.
"Let's go, Kuro."
The little evil dog yipped as Minori gathered the remaining robes and stepped onto the street.
The mood in Ye Lantier had changed. The streets bustled, but a faint unease hung in the air. War rumors? Bandit raids? Minori had no interest in the gossip—he had already made up his mind to leave for the Baharuth Empire soon.
He headed toward his grandmother Lizzie's shop, planning to offload part of the herbs he had gathered.
Too much in one sale would draw suspicion. Better to keep his inventory quiet.
As he turned a corner with the crowd, his sleeve shifted. With a subtle gesture, the clothes bundle was replaced by one of herbs. Just a flick, and the item vanished into storage.
Smooth, efficient. No one noticed.
Minori's thoughts returned to last night—specifically, the fifth-tier magic he had acquired: [Raise Dead: Modified].
A magic that allowed revival even without divine alignment—a feat said to be impossible without faith-based casting.
But apparently not anymore.
In the novels, magic like [Silence] had a superior version called [Stillness], but it was locked behind the faith system. The Slane Theocracy had long developed ways to cast such magic using mana instead of divine energy.
But that was for low-level magic.
This? Fifth-tier resurrection?
Such transformation hinted at terrifying magical prowess—particularly from Chiranon, the one responsible.
Minori's expression grew serious.
The native humans of this world were not the weaklings he once assumed. Their breakthroughs—alchemy, scroll production, hybrid casting methods—were the fruit of centuries of relentless research.
Centuries.
How could even a skilled YGGDRASIL player hope to match that kind of sustained development?
In raw magical theory, the natives were beginning to catch up.
"The true killer," Minori murmured, "might not be the spell itself… but resurrection."
His fingers curled around the hem of his robe as the realization sank in. He had entered a world far deeper, more dangerous, and far more brilliant than any game could prepare him for.