Chapter Eleven: Precision and Perfection

After the other group of pirates had left, Wade slipped out from behind the corner. He stood just outside their line of sight, his left hand gripping the longbow while his right drew an arrow from the quiver slung across his back. Drawing the bow and setting the string, his movements flowed in seamless succession.

It was no illusion—he truly had mastered this longbow. Even back at the wooden cabin, when he first loosed an arrow, he'd felt an uncanny sense of harmony, as if the shaft that soared from the string was an extension of his own arm. He wasn't relying on instinct alone; as he aimed, he simply knew that the arrow would strike wherever he wished.

When he’d been alive, he’d practiced archery, but only as a casual pursuit—just enough to learn how to shoot an arrow, nothing more. Back then, the bow always felt foreign in his hands, awkward and unfamiliar. His archery instructor had told him that for a talented marksman to defeat his enemies in real combat, at least ten years of training was required.

Wade had never had ten years with the bow. His opportunities to shoot had been few and far between, and he’d barely learned the basics. Yet now, he seemed to have become a master archer.

After killing eight pirates, Wade realized with startling clarity that his joints and movements had grown more fluid than ever before—even more so than when he first wandered the wasteland. The creaking stiffness that had plagued him, as though his bones were rusted, had faded away. This was not a sudden transformation; he felt himself gradually gaining mastery over this fleshless body.

It was a process of change. On the first day, clawing his way out of the earth, he’d been like an old man crippled by rheumatism, unable even to walk steadily. But with every skull he’d crushed in battle, every soul-fire he’d absorbed from his fallen kin, the cracks and wear in his bones had slowly healed.

His movements grew smoother—no more delay or stuttering when lifting a foot or raising an arm. By the time he was digging a hole at the foot of the hill to build himself a new home, he felt no different from a young man.

No, judging by this moment's sensations, he was altogether changed.

He had never felt anything like this before; it was as if he could control each and every bone in his body at will. When he shattered the sixty-fourth skull, absorbed the sixty-fourth soul-fire, and repaired every last fracture, it was as though he’d crossed some invisible threshold and ascended to a new level.

It was like someone struggling for days to learn how to ride a bicycle, falling time and again, until, in a sudden instant, they grasped the secret—discovering how to balance on two wheels and ride forward, feeling the rush of wind and glimpsing new horizons, never to forget the lesson.

That was how Wade felt now. Being a skeleton, he realized, was a miraculous thing. No living person could bend their right knee forward at a ninety-degree angle without snapping the bones and tearing the flesh. But as a skeleton, he could twist his arms and legs into grotesque, unnatural positions with impunity.

He could even detach his arms and swap them with his feet, and everything would function as it should. That was the strange nature of undead skeletons. If a living person wanted to do splits, their tendons might protest—but skeletons had no such limitations. Wade felt that, at this moment, whatever he willed, his body would obey. He could do the splits, perform a backflip, or even spin his head a full three hundred and sixty degrees.

As long as he consciously controlled himself, he could master his entire form. If he understood what it meant to draw a bow, set the string, and loose an arrow—and if he maintained sufficient focus—he could become an infallible marksman.

His bones moved with mechanical precision, each piece fitting perfectly into place. Everything within his gaze was within his range. When he was certain that this shot would pierce a pirate’s eye, his pale, rigid fingers released the bowstring.

The wooden arrow, wrapped in a faint chill, shot forth. Snowflakes, caught in the turbulence, scattered; for a heartbeat, there was a straight, empty track cut through the falling snow.

In the next instant, the arrow spanned the distance and plunged into the first pirate’s right eye. The shaft burst the eyeball, and the savage tip buried itself deep in the brain until it struck the skull and stopped. Blood and brain matter erupted, spraying the second pirate’s face. Even the conical iron helmet the pirate wore for protection could not save him; the arrow was instantly fatal.

Flawless and precise.

No archer could have found fault with Wade’s shot.

Without hesitation, he fired a second arrow. Another headshot—another right eye—the scene repeating itself as though by design.

The pirate who saw his companion fall had no time to shout a warning; his mind could not comprehend what was happening before darkness consumed him. Life ebbed from the pirates before Wade’s eyes. As a skeleton, he enjoyed another advantage: there was no fooling his senses; no one could feign death and escape his notice.

He called Mia down from the rafters of the shed—now she could feast to her heart’s content on the pirates’ souls.

Wade could not help but feel like a villain; those who died by his hand had their souls devoured by an “evil specter.” Yet, truth be told, the number he had slain was but a fraction of those butchered by these pirates.

He was generous with Mia, feeding her without reservation. He’d raised children before, but never a ghost; yet Mia was like an innocent child herself. Since their souls were now bound by contract, Wade intended to care for her properly.

She was newly born, after all; she needed to eat well to grow strong.

The little one, delighted by his permission, radiated joy. Three clusters of souls drifted from the corpses, their ugly faces contorted in the flames, but Mia gulped them down and flew back to hide inside Wade’s hat.

Wade turned his gaze to the warehouse door. Five pirates remained: two standing on the steps outside, who had heard voices and laughter only seconds ago—so they suspected nothing, bows drawn and aimed at the cellar door. Below, three more pirates battered at the door, their blows shaking the floor without pause.

Wade crept to the edge and peered inside. The door would soon give way; the two above were nocking arrows to their bows.

He tossed a silver coin inside—a Tania silver piece engraved with a lily. A Netherlandish farmer would toil for half a year to earn such a coin, while a Viking pirate might earn fifty to eighty of them in a year—enough for a farmer to work thirty years.

Compared to a farmer, pirates were far more attuned to the sound of silver.

The coin clattered and spun on the wooden floor, its ring sweet and alluring. The pirates’ attention shifted toward the sound—and in that instant, one of them fell like a stalk of wheat at harvest.

An arrow had pierced his head. The other pirate turned to see where it had come from.

Suddenly, the firelight dimmed.

A shadow blotted out the flames.

It enveloped him; something unknown had come up behind him. As realization dawned and his hair stood on end, a longsword drove through his heart from behind, running him through.

His throat was slit, his vision blurred, and with a dull thud, he collapsed.

Just before his consciousness faded, he heard a rattling, grinding sound.

It was strangely familiar, like the crack of an axe splitting living ribs, but softer, slower.

It was—was it the sound of bones knocking together?

Was that my own bones?

He never found the answer; his life ended before the question formed. He could never have imagined that a skeleton would be the one to kill him.