Morgan had reconstructed Aroche’s body from the remnants of his own mories, using the sa technique that had given Nemo her humanoid form. It was almost flawless—perhaps even an improvent over the original.
But while his body had been restored, his soul remained battered. Even so, with Morgan’s mastery of holy power, reinforced by a ten-circled spell and infused with her own soul energy, she had managed to pull him back from the brink.
“You really should be thanking Lance Inkor,” Morgan remarked, her voice gentle as she placed a hand against Aroche’s chest, pressing lightly, testing the stability of his newly reconstructed form.
“He preserved your soul with his power, which made saving you much easier on my end.” She offered a small, warm smile, as if explaining sothing simple. “I’ll try to break it down for you.”
“Please,” Aroche nodded.
She tilted his chin slightly, her fingers brushing against his skin, checking for any lingering instability in the spellwork.
She concluded that today, mana poisoning ca in two variations. The first was the typical kind—rotting the body, warping the mind, and eventually sinking its claws into the soul. Then there was the second kind, a newer, far nastier corruption engineered by the Demon Lord himself.
“Like Princess Blair—and possibly the Demon Lord’s minions—your soul, mind, and body remained perfectly intact,” Morgan explained slowly, her tone asured as she traced the back of his hand, watching for any delayed reactions. “The only problem is, none of them were yours to control.”
She paused before adding wryly, “Well, in your case, your soul, mind, and head.”
She placed two fingers against his temple, channeling a pulse of warmth to test his cognitive responses.
The necromancy that had revived Aroche wasn’t the usual crude resurrection magic the first Demon Lord had used five centuries ago. No, this was sothing different—perhaps a byproduct of the ever-evolving corruption the second Demon Lord had introduced to the world.
Aroche exhaled slowly, piecing together the implications of his survival. He flexed his fingers experintally, rolling his shoulders as if still getting used to the feeling of existing again. “That must’ve cost a lot,” he muttered, rubbing his temples where the phantom weight of corruption still lingered.
Morgan rely smiled, adjusting the sleeve of his robe with an almost absentminded precision. “Not at all,” she said lightly. “As long as you’re alive, and my husband doesn’t have to kill soone he actually cares about for once, I’d call that a fair trade.”
Aroche nodded and forced a smile.
“If you feel bad, how about you marry my husband as his second wife?” Morgan placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Excuse ?” Aroche’s eyes went blank as he felt an angry vein pop in his jaw.
Morgan’s smile beca a bit scary, and the sa angry vein popped in her jaw. “You seem so angry seeing him happy with .”
“Lady, I saw that man piss on my leather armor once, and you ask to see him happy?” Aroche smiled back, gentle yet nacing.
“Then, should I open your intestines and piss on them too?”
“I’m sorry. Forgive , Sister-in-law.”
Burn might not have shown it outright, but when Aroche threw open the solarium doors and accused him of being happy without him, Morgan caught the brief flicker of guilt in his eyes—just for a second, before he masked it with his usual sharp-edged, shaless retort.
And Aroche saw it too.
“I was just trying to break the ice,” Aroche muttered, rubbing his neck. “I an, it’s not like Burn and I are the type to get all teary-eyed over a reunion.”
The last thing he wanted was for Burn to wallow in guilt over not finding or saving him sooner. If Aroche could still be himself—still throw jabs and insults without hesitation—then maybe Burn wouldn’t have to carry that weight.
Besides, Aroche was proud of him. Burn had found a way to be happy, to build sothing for himself despite everything.
But the difference between them was stark. While Aroche had spent his ti suspended in a void, trapped in corruption, Burn had lived with the gnawing weight of regret and guilt that never dulled.
He saw himself as the man who had lost his best friend to the hands of his own brother—the sa brother he had been forced to kill. The thought of happiness might never have even crossed Burn’s mind after that day.
“Anyway,” Morgan cut in, crossing her arms with an exhausted sigh. “I’ve spent sleepless nights trying to console him. My ribs and waist are in agony. I am not taking him again tonight.” Her narrowed eyes sharpened into a glare. “Figure sothing out that actually benefits humanity for once.”
Aroche, ever the problem-solver, didn’t even hesitate. “Just let him go drinking and partying with noblewo—” He stopped mid-sentence, clamping his mouth shut before lowering his head. “I’m sorry, Sister-in-law.”
Morgan’s eye twitched. “What was even the point of resurrecting you if you’re this useless? What a complete waste of my soul.”
“Alright, alright! Just give ti, you damn witch!”
Then suddenly, sothing clicked in Aroche’s mind.
This woman…
His eyes narrowed, suspicion creeping in like a slow dawn. “You dare use my own spell against , woman?”
Morgan didn’t even bother hiding her smugness. She had done exactly what he did to Burn—breaking the ice with relentless insults, steering the conversation away from guilt and regret.
And worse? It worked. She had distracted him just enough to stop dwelling on his own death, on the pain he had caused Burn, on the fact that his best friend had suffered for years while he had been trapped in that corrupted void.
“You fell for it, bastard,” Morgan sneered, arms crossed, victorious.
Aroche let out a dry laugh, shaking his head in grudging admiration. “Ohh, I see now. You’re sothing else, huh? No wonder he loves you. Fair, fair.” He gave her a slow nod of acknowledgnt, the kind reserved for a worthy opponent.
And just like that, they both chuckled, the weight in the room lifting just a little.
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Welco back, Aroche. Hope you don't mind the cesspit called the world I created.
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