Chapter Twenty: Assimilation

The door that had appeared in his last dream had become an inanimate object. It no longer reflected anything, yet the frame remained; it had not vanished. Wade felt that this door was merely temporarily unusable. When the twenty-first face of the die was once again filled with blood-red, perhaps then he could cross through it again and return to that frozen plain.

Whether it would truly be possible remained to be seen in time.

For now, Wade could not interact with the door at all. He could leap through the frame, but it was no different from vaulting over a fence—nothing more. The twenty-sided die was much the same; when Wade tried to throw it, it gave no response, spinning only as an ordinary die might.

The die, the door—Wade had no means to interact with them.

The only thing left untouched was the “fire.”

Wade stood before the flames, reaching out his hand and sensing a familiar presence.

It was Mia’s presence. He could sense Mia within that fire.

An invisible thread linked them together. He felt as if he could tug that thread and draw Mia into the dream as well.

The moment this thought crossed his mind, a reflection appeared before his eyes: the small ghostly spirit lying upon his white bones, deep in peaceful slumber.

A sense of finally having control over this dream settled over him. He understood now some rules he had not known before: this was not a dream, but a mental space of his own creation.

He was master here. Without his permission, even Mia—bound to him by the closest of ties—could not invade his domain.

So that was how it was. Realizing this truth bestowed authority upon him.

He tugged on the thread, drawing Mia into this place.

The little one floated in his palm, her face bewildered, momentarily at a loss, but as soon as she saw Wade, she calmed, settling on his shoulder and hugging his neck affectionately.

She did not know where this place was, nor would she have understood if he tried to explain. Such matters were of no importance to her; as long as Wade was here, she felt safe.

Brimming with energy, she circled around him, like a lark newly learning to beat its wings.

Wade reached out to play with her. To keep the nerves wound too taut would only bring exhaustion; a little rest and play were necessary. Even when wandering alone across the wilderness, Wade would often take a slender bone and draw pictures in the sand.

He would sketch simple figures, scenes like those from a children’s picture book. Though no one ever admired his creations, in the act of drawing he found calm and could forget his troubles.

He and Mia played a game of eagle-and-chicks, and when he caught Mia in his palm, the little one would beam with joy.

Her laughter was wonderful—ethereal, like music. The same voice, when crying, was mournful and eerie, but when bright with cheer, it was so lovely that it lifted the heart.

She was letting herself be caught on purpose. Had she truly wished to escape, she could fly high and fast—Wade had seen her speed, and a skeleton trudging on land could never hope to catch her.

She was simply playing with him. With the innocence of a child, for before becoming a ghost, she had been no more than ten years old.

Though she had suffered unspeakable pain before death, here before Wade, she could let her nature be free.

Wade still remembered her weeping softly, face hidden in her hands. Now, she was utterly unguarded, free and unrestrained.

This was good. Wade hoped she could always be so happy.

But after a while, it was time for more serious matters.

He caught Mia, stroked her forehead, and set her on his shoulder, turning to look at the fire.

Even after bringing Mia into the dream, the fire still burned.

Wade understood why. Mia had not yet fully digested the Viking’s soul. She had managed, with some effort, to swallow the soul whole, but digesting it would take much longer.

There was no help for it; the soul was simply too powerful for the newly-formed Mia.

This was the soul of a seasoned professional, fundamentally different from ordinary Viking raiders.

To become a professional adventurer was to alter the essence of one’s life. The farther one walked on that path, the wider the gulf grew.

That Viking had mastered “fire”; he was no novice, bound by convention and inexperience.

Though Wade, with cunning and the unique advantages of being a skeleton, had managed to slay him by subterfuge, there was no denying that, in open combat, even ten Wades together would have had their skulls smashed to shards by his fists.

Perhaps he was not as strong as a thousand men, but certainly stronger than a hundred. To digest such a soul would naturally take much time.

Wade tried to help Mia with the digestion.

As a skeleton, he lacked the ability to manipulate souls. What a skeleton could do was utterly different from what a ghost could do.

To use a profession as comparison: a skeleton was a warrior, while a ghost was a mage.

No matter how hard a warrior swung a mage’s staff, he would never conjure even a spark from its tip—at best, he might break the staff.

Yet, even so, Wade could, through his bond with Mia, help her break down the “tough” parts of the soul.

This was something he realized only after gaining control of this dream-space.

“Go to sleep, Mia.”

Wade sent Mia out of the dream—the rest did not require the little spirit’s involvement.

He seized the blazing fire, tightening his grip.

Flames spilled from his hand, and then the empty space began to change.

A roaring fire blazed up, and amid the crackling, burning psalms and prayers fell like ash.

Above, an arched ceiling was set with stained glass images of saints—this was a scene preserved in the soul’s memory.

“Svein Floyd—so that is your name?”

Wade looked at the towering figure before him. In the firelight, the Viking’s shadow stretched and twisted, resembling a fierce beast.

Svein Floyd—his lingering memories and soul had conjured this scene. Wade read his memories and knew this was the place, three years ago, where Svein had fought the church’s disciplinary knights.

Now there were no knights here—only Wade and the man.

Wade took up a knight’s sword from the ground, facing Svein.

Svein stood motionless, like a statue; he was dead, and this was but a remnant shaped by memory.

Defeat him, and his soul would scatter—much like cutting a slab of meat and tossing it into the soup pot to stew; only then would it become tender enough to be eaten.

To use a battle-hardened professional as a sparring partner was, perhaps, a bit extravagant.