The Necromancer Who Wanted to Stay Human

Chapter 3: The Price of Salvation

Ramon’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic, syncopated rhythm that matched the pulsing of the crimson text before him. He reached out, his fingers trembling, trying to swipe the glowing interface away like a bothersome insect, but the words held fast.

[ ALERT: SOUL ANCHORING CRITICAL. ]

[ TARGET IDENTIFIED: SUBJECT BEATRIZ. ]

[ HARVEST TO STABILIZE VESSEL. ]

Beatriz slumped further against the cold stone, her breath coming in ragged, whistling gasps. The crystalline growth along her jawline seemed to flare in the dark, a jagged, beautiful, and terrifying luminescence.

"Ramon? You’re staring at nothing again," she wheezed, her voice thin and brittle. "Whatever that thing is telling you, stop listening to it. It's a parasite, not a compass."

Ramon dropped his hand, his expression twisting into a mask of frustration. "It wants me to… it wants me to do something, Beatriz. Something bad. I’m not going to let it."

Beatriz let out a dry, hacking laugh that quickly turned into a cough. She clutched her side, her knuckles white against her dark cloak. "Let me guess. It wants a soul, right? It wants you to finish what the grave started. That’s how this works. Everything in this hellscape is hungry."

"I'm not doing it," Ramon insisted, sliding closer to her on the damp floor. "There has to be another way. I’ve got this… this feeling. Like there’s a current of energy under my skin. If I can just push it into you, maybe it’ll counteract the plague. Maybe it’ll stop the crystallization."

Beatriz shook her head, her eyes rolling back slightly as a wave of pain hit her. "No. Don't be an idiot. That energy isn't medicine. It’s raw, unrefined rot. You push that into me, and you’ll just speed up the process. You’ll turn me into a crystal statue in seconds."

"I can control it," Ramon lied, his voice wavering. He didn't know if he could, but he couldn't just sit there and watch her turn to glass. He reached out, his glowing violet fingertips hovering inches from the translucent, brittle patches on her neck. "Just let me try. Please."

"Ramon, wait—"

He didn't listen. He closed his eyes, focusing on that electric hum that pulsed deep in his marrow. He imagined it as a soft, warm light—a soothing balm meant to knit flesh back together. He pushed the intent toward his palm, feeling the violet glow intensify, casting long, dancing shadows against the cellar walls.

Suddenly, a searing jolt of agony shot up his arm, like he had plunged his hand into molten lead.

[ WARNING: INTERACTION PROHIBITED. ]

[ SYSTEM RESTRICTION: HEALING IS NOT A CORE FUNCTION OF THE NECROMANTIC PATH. ]

[ HARVESTING IS THE ONLY PERMITTED INTERACTION. ]

Ramon cried out, recoiling as if burned. The violet light flared violently before snapping back into his skin, leaving his hand numb and shaking.

"Damn it!" he shouted, slamming his fist into the floor. "Why? Why can't I just help? What kind of twisted system is this?"

Beatriz watched him, her eyes clouded with pain and a strange, hollow sort of sorrow. "I told you. It’s not here to help you. It’s here to make you a tool. A reaper. If it wanted to heal, it wouldn't have brought you here in a pile of corpses."

Ramon scrambled to her side, his frustration giving way to a desperate, focused urgency. If he couldn't use his powers, he would use his head. He looked at the crystalline veins creeping toward her ear. They weren't just random marks; they followed the pulse points.

"Okay, forget the magic," he muttered, mostly to himself. "If I can't heal it, I’ll stall it. How does the plague work? Does it move through blood flow? Temperature? What?"

Beatriz blinked, confused by his sudden change in demeanor. "It’s a stagnation. It feeds on... it feeds on the heat of life. Why are you checking my neck?"

Ramon’s fingers were steady now, his touch clinical. He felt the cold, hard ridges of the crystals. "You're freezing, Beatriz. Your heart is struggling to pump, and the crystals are moving in because your body isn't generating enough friction to fight them off. Your circulation is shot."

"You’re talking like a doctor," she whispered, her eyes tracking his movements. "I told you, I'm already gone. You’re wasting your time."

"Shut up," Ramon said, not unkindly. "I’m not a doctor, but I know how to fix a clogged line. If I can't channel the soul-stuff, I’ll channel your own damn heat."

He reached out and gripped her shoulders, shifting her into a more upright position. He began to massage the base of her neck, moving with firm, rhythmic pressure. It wasn't gentle—he wasn't trying to be—he was trying to force the sluggish, cold blood to circulate.

"Ow! That—that hurts," Beatriz hissed, though she didn't pull away.

"Good. That means you’re still sensitive," Ramon grunted, his brow furrowed in concentration. He leaned in, his own body heat radiating toward her. He looked at the red text that was still hovering, pulsing with a rhythmic, irritating glow. It felt like a spectator, a judgmental observer waiting for him to fail.

"Are you watching this, you piece of junk?" he growled at the interface. "I don't need your permission to be a human being."

Beatriz stared at him, her gaze sharpening as she felt a flicker of actual warmth return to her jaw. The biting chill that had defined her existence for weeks seemed to recede, just by a fraction. "You’re an idiot, Ramon. You’re exerting yourself for nothing. You'll pass out, and when you do, the Wards will smell the life on you."

"Then you better wake me up before they get here," Ramon shot back, his voice strained. He kept his hands moving, working the stiffness from her muscles, ignoring the ache in his own shoulders. "I didn't crawl out of a grave just to watch someone else die in a hole. That’s not how my story goes."

"And what story is that?" Beatriz asked softly. Her breathing was becoming less jagged, more rhythmic.

"I don't know yet," Ramon admitted, his pulse slowing down to match hers. "But it definitely doesn't end with me being some sort of soul-stealing puppet."

They sat in the near-darkness, the silence of the cellar broken only by the sound of their breath and the faint, rhythmic scratching of dirt shifting against the iron door outside. The violet light from the System dimmed, turning to a low, standby flicker. It seemed confused, its directives stalled by the stubbornness of its host.

Beatriz closed her eyes, her head resting against the rough brickwork. For the first time since he’d met her, she looked like a girl instead of a ghost. "You're making a mistake, you know. By keeping me alive, you're tying yourself to a corpse. I’m dead weight, literally."

"I like dead weight," Ramon said, though his energy was flagging. "It gives me something to carry."

Suddenly, the red text flared to life again, blindingly bright, casting a harsh, crimson glare across the cellar. Ramon winced, shielding his eyes.

[ ALERT: HOST CONSTITUTION INCREASED. ]

[ NEW DIRECTIVE DETECTED. ]

[ SYSTEM MISSION GENERATED: SAVE THE HOST. ]

[ OBJECTIVE: STABILIZE SUBJECT BEATRIZ’S CONDITION WITHOUT CONSUMING HER ESSENCE. ]

[ REWARD: SOUL ANCHORING STABILIZED. ]

Ramon blinked, the words searing into his retinas. "Save the host?"

Beatriz squinted at the floating text, her voice trembling. "What is it now? Did it find a way to punish us?"

Ramon laughed, a dry, incredulous sound that echoed off the cellar walls. "No. I think... I think it just changed the rules."

"Rules?" Beatriz asked, her hand finally dropping from her blade. She looked at him with something akin to awe. "What did you do?"

Ramon leaned back, his limbs heavy with exhaustion, his hands still trembling from the effort. "I guess I just stopped playing by theirs."

He looked at the interface. The crimson had faded back to a soft, pulsating blue, the color of a steady heartbeat. The mission was clear, and for the first time, he felt like he had a reason to keep going. He wasn't just a vessel anymore; he was a variable.

"We need to move, Beatriz," he said, standing up and offering her a hand. "If the System wants you saved, then we’re going to find out why. And I’m going to make sure we don’t need to kill anyone to do it."

Beatriz looked at his hand—steady, alive, and human—and for the first time in an eternity, she reached back. Her skin was still cool, but the crystalline chill had retreated. As she stood, the cellar seemed to grow lighter, or perhaps it was just the hope that had finally flickered into existence in the dark.

"You're a fool, Ramon," she whispered, her grip firm.

"Yeah, well," Ramon replied, pulling her to her feet and dusting off his ragged clothes. "We’ll see who's laughing when we’re done with this place."

He stepped toward the iron door, the HUD guiding his way like a phantom lantern. The path ahead was dark, filled with the promise of more graves and more shadows, but he wasn't looking back. He had a mission now, and for the first time since waking up in that pit, he wasn't just running. He was going on the offensive.