The Necromancer Who Wanted to Stay Human

Chapter 2: A Contract in the Ruins

The air in the trench felt heavy, almost pressurized, like the atmosphere before a massive thunderstorm. Ramon kept his hands raised, his eyes darting from the rusted blade in Beatriz’s grip to the shifting, impossible violet glow of the interface that refused to fade from his vision.

“Executioners?” Ramon asked, his voice cracking slightly. “You’re telling me this place has a legal system? Or a cleanup crew? Because if this is a legal system, I’d like to speak to a manager.”

Beatriz didn’t find the humor in it. She gestured sharply with the blade toward the lip of the trench. “Shut up. They track sound as much as they track the scent of the living. If you want to keep breathing, you move when I move, and you stay quiet.”

Ramon lowered his hands, feeling a strange, hollow ache in his chest—a residual sting from the necrotic energy he had accidentally channeled. “Look, I get it. I’m the weird guy who woke up in a mass grave and made a corpse dance. I’m a liability. But you’re out here by yourself, and you look like you’ve seen worse than just me. Why help me?”

Beatriz stepped closer, the grime on her face accentuating the sharp, gaunt lines of her cheekbones. She squinted at him, her gaze lingering on the blue light flickering in front of his eyes. “I’m not helping you, you idiot. I’m using you. You have the mark, and if you’re stupid enough to keep it active, you’ll draw every Grave-Ward in the sector right to my position. I’d rather keep you alive long enough to figure out how to shut that thing off.”

Ramon took a cautious step toward her, his boots sliding in the mud. “Fine. Whatever. Let’s call it a mutually beneficial arrangement. But I need to know what’s happening. This isn't my world. I don't know why I’m here, and I don't know why you’re talking about my soul being marked.”

Beatriz snorted, turning her back to him to scan the perimeter of the trench. “Your world? You think this is the only one? Look around, kid. This world died because the cycle choked. Everything that was supposed to pass on—the souls, the memories, the heat—it all got stuck. It curdled. Now, it’s just decay feeding on decay.”

“And the Grave-Wards?” Ramon asked, following her as she began to scramble up the crumbling wall of the trench.

“The immune system,” Beatriz whispered, reaching the top and pulling herself over the edge. She offered a gloved hand down to him. “Except this immune system decided that everything living is a virus. Grab my hand.”

Ramon took it, his skin tingling as he made contact. He hauled himself up, his muscles screaming in protest. As he cleared the ledge, he saw the expanse of the world beyond the pit. It was a hellscape of jagged, black basalt pillars and shattered, calcified trees. The sky wasn't blue; it was a swirling bruise of purple and charcoal.

“This is insane,” Ramon breathed, staring at the horizon. “There’s nothing out there.”

“Exactly,” Beatriz said, keeping her voice low. She pushed him forward, towards the skeletal remains of what looked like a concrete cellar tucked into a nearby ridge. “We’re heading for the basement. It’s lined with lead and old salts. It’s the only place the Wards can’t track our heat signatures.”

They moved in a low crouch, darting between the ruins. As they ran, Ramon noticed the way Beatriz moved—favoring her right side, her breathing coming in jagged, wheezing hitches.

“You’re hurt,” Ramon noted, pausing behind a fallen slab of masonry.

Beatriz froze, her eyes widening. She quickly pulled her cloak tighter, hiding her neck. “It’s nothing. Keep moving.”

“That’s not nothing,” Ramon insisted, his protective instinct overriding his confusion. “You’re wheezing, and there’s… there’s a shimmer on your skin. Is that a bruise?”

Beatriz glared at him, a flicker of genuine desperation in her eyes. “It’s the Crystalline Plague, okay? Does that satisfy your curiosity? It’s what happens when you spend too long in the wake of a broken cycle. Your blood turns to glass, and eventually, you just… shatter.”

Ramon felt a cold wave of horror wash over him. He looked at the girl—really looked at her—and saw the fine, translucent veins running up her neck, pulsing with a faint, brittle light that wasn't quite biological.

“Can I fix it?” he blurted out.

Beatriz let out a dry, hacking laugh. “Fix it? You can barely control your own hands. You’re a vessel, not a god. Stop talking and get in the cellar.”

They slid into the dark, damp hole in the earth. The air inside was freezing, smelling of dust and ancient, mineral-rich earth. Beatriz slammed a heavy iron door shut and jammed a rusted bolt into place. The silence that followed was absolute, save for their frantic breathing.

“We’re safe here,” Beatriz whispered, slumping against the cold wall. She pulled back her hood, revealing the crystalline patches creeping up her jawline. They looked like jagged jewels embedded in living flesh.

Ramon sat down across from her, his interface still casting its neon glow in the darkness. He felt helpless. The system hummed, a persistent, annoying presence in the back of his mind.

“Why are you really out here, Beatriz?” he asked softly. “If you’re dying, why not just… I don't know, find a place to rest?”

Beatriz looked at him, her eyes tired. “Because there is no rest. When we die, we don't go to the void. We become fuel. We become Grave-Wards. I’m trying to reach the Spire. They say there’s a way to break the anchor, to actually pass on.”

Ramon looked down at his own hands. The violet light was pulsing rhythmically, syncing with the beating of his heart. “The system wants me to harvest souls. It says I need to stabilize my vessel.”

Beatriz stiffened. Her hand drifted toward her blade, her knuckles white. “Harvesting… that’s how you get stronger. That’s how you consume the essence of the fallen to fuel your own existence.”

“I don’t want to,” Ramon said firmly. “I’m not a murderer.”

Beatriz looked at him with a mixture of pity and suspicion. “In this world, Ramon, the only difference between a murderer and a victim is who dies first. If you don’t harvest, you become the harvest. It’s simple math.”

Ramon looked at her, his mind reeling. He felt the weight of his own existence pressing down on him. He didn’t want to hurt anyone, but he could feel the hunger—not for food, but for the energy that was leaking out of the very ground they sat on.

Suddenly, the interface in front of him flickered. It shifted from its standard blue to a sharp, aggressive crimson.

[ ALERT: SOUL ANCHORING CRITICAL. ]

[ TARGET IDENTIFIED: SUBJECT BEATRIZ. ]

[ CONTRACTUAL OBLIGATION: HARVEST A SOUL TO STABILIZE THE VESSEL. ]

[ WARNING: SUBJECT IS DECAYING. HARVESTING NOW WILL YIELD 85% ESSENCE RETENTION. ]

Ramon stared at the floating text, his breath hitching. The notification hovered just inches from Beatriz’s throat, a cold, glowing blade of light that she couldn't see.

“What?” Beatriz whispered, sensing his shift in demeanor. She gripped her blade tighter. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Ramon’s heart hammered against his ribs. He looked at the system, then at the girl who had risked her life to pull him out of the grave. The logic of the world screamed at him to act, to take what he needed to survive, to secure his own future at the cost of hers.

“I’m not doing it,” Ramon whispered, his voice trembling. “I’m not doing it.”

Beatriz’s eyes widened as she noticed his gaze fixed on the space right in front of her face. “What is it? What does it say?”

Ramon reached out, his hand shaking as he tried to swipe the notification away, but it stayed locked, a persistent, mocking command. “It doesn’t matter. Just… just tell me how to kill the screen. Please, Beatriz. Tell me how to kill it before it kills us both.”