From Corpse to Crown: Reborn as a Mortician in Another World-Chapter 53: A Bitter Truth Revealed

The throne room shuddered with power. Icicles from the ceiling became deadly spikes that Lucian narrowly dodged—and Merry had to quickly form shielding glyphs for Alice and Cadrel.

The King rose from his chair like he had only been asleep for a brief moment. Each frozen cabinet trembled and the glass shattered into pieces as he passed by, form like cracked porcelain and pale fire.

His frozen crown was slowly melting in his anger, dripping fresh water onto the ground. His breath came in gusts that rattled the glass bones of the Chateau. And yet...

Lucian could feel the joy that was once rooted in such anger. That this man carved the castle and had a hundred thousand men help with the building. Surrounding him were the ghosts of women who plucked ingredients for him to use in his ice cream.

And when they no longer had any ingredients left, the King asked for their tears, their love, their anger, their absolute despair. Alone, he steeped the ingredients in cream and hacked away at the ice crystals until the only thing that remained was sweetness and infused memories.

His eyes glowed—not with rage, but with understanding. The King wasn’t a mortician, per say. He was like an emotional taxidermist. And like fools, they entered his edible museum looking for a hiding place.

All they found was a man who devoted his life to his craft, and now his slumber had been disturbed.

Lucian and Elian stood side by side in the half-lit throne chamber, facing him. Their Grimoires hovered beside them like dueling familiars, page-ribbons snapping in the biting cold.

"I never meant to be king," the old man rasped, voice straining against centuries. "I only meant to keep sorrow safe."

He stepped down from the throne.

Every footfall warped the floor.

The memory of being the 13th Mortician was the final flavor, and it was now melting, despite the frozen and windy castle. Lucian felt the silence hang thick in the air as the King slowly made his way toward them.

Elian felt the unbearable taste of every grief denied its voice in the back of his throat. He tried to hold onto the feeling, but his Grimoire hummed and he felt the jolt at the base of his neck seconds later.

[Suppression has been successful.]

"Split him," Elian said coldly. "Disorient him from the left. I’ll bind him with a Crown glyph."

Lucian glanced sideways. "We’re doing this together?"

Elian’s expression didn’t change. "We both survive. Or neither of us does."

They moved.

+

Lucian dove left, his Echoheart Grimoire flaring with golden sigils and fire pulsing far too bright near his eyes. Elian’s Shadowrite Grimoire responded in perfect counter-time, launching a chain of suppression glyphs that curved like blades around the throne.

The King sighed and caught them both with ease.

He raised one hand—and the air rippled like glass in fire.

The attack rebounded. The chamber exploded in silence.

Lucian slammed into a mirror column and rolled. Blood filled his mouth. Elian skidded to the side, his coat torn along the shoulder. His Grimoire pulsed with a noise like screaming metal.

The King loomed.

"You think you came here by choice," he said, voice calm and horrible. "But both of you were shaped to fit a story neither of you wrote."

Lucian’s pulse stilled.

"What—?"

The King pointed at Elian, who was already rising again, eyes storm-flat.

"He is mimicry at its finest."

Lucian stared.

The King lifted a pint with the label "The Queen’s Secret" and, with an ice-crusted spoon, sampled it. Almost mechanically, he started to speak. "Yes. She squirreled away your most important memories and decisions...and made him. With the Shadow Court."

Elian didn’t flinch. But his Grimoire shimmered a bloody red and shuddered beside him. Its aura glitched like a corrupted song.

Lucian’s throat went dry. "That’s not possible."

Elian still didn’t speak.

His jaw locked tight.

The King smiled—soft and sorrowful.

"You tried to carry grief with mercy. She taught him to use it like a sword."

[Emotional Feedback Surge Detected]

[Subject: Elian — Anger Spike: +91%]

[Response Protocol: FAILED]

Lucian watched in real time as Elian’s control faltered.

His Grimoire tried to override the flood—but failed.

Elian’s fingers trembled.

When the jolt did not arrive, he paused.

Then he bit down—hard—on the inside of his lip.

Blood welled across his mouth.

A single drop fell to the floor.

The rage hit him like lightning.

"Elian—" Lucian reached out.

"Don’t," Elian snapped, voice cracking—not from volume, but from the rawness underneath.

"I knew," he said. "I knew I was a copy. A blueprint. I didn’t care. Until now."

The King raised his hands again.

A storm of frozen sorrow burst forth like shrapnel—fractured memories, ripped from the walls, hurled at them.

Lucian raised a shield glyph. Elian stepped beside him, and the two Grimoires aligned—Echoheart and Shadowrite, flaring in tandem.

Their magic clashed, spun, fused.

They struck together.

Lucian’s echo-binding flared like a starburst.

Elian’s soul-lash glyph spiraled forward like a silver knife of pure command.

The King staggered.

Cracks spread across his body.

His mouth opened—whether to scream or speak again, Lucian never found out.

Because together, they struck the final blow.

A shard of frozen light split the throne room in two.

And the King shattered.

Not in anger.

Not in pain.

But in peace.

He whispered, as he fell:

"I only ever wanted someone to remember the taste of what we couldn’t say."

+

The silence after was unbearable.

Elian stood with his back to Lucian, hands at his sides. Blood still touched his lip.

His Grimoire slowly folded closed.

Lucian stepped forward, cautious.

"Elian," he said, voice softer now. "Why didn’t you tell me?"

He didn’t turn around.

"Because if I told you, I’d have to admit I wanted to be real."

Lucian’s heart ached.

"I think you are," he said.

Finally, Elian turned.

His eyes were tired. Haunted.

And not so different from Lucian’s own.

"I hated you," Elian said, voice thin. "Not because you failed. But because you were allowed to. And they still feared you more than they ever respected me."

Lucian looked down at the ruined floor. "The Queen made you in my image because she thought I was a mistake she could fix."

Elian let out a sharp, humorless breath.

"She spends all this time molding me... and I crack within the first few encounters." He looked down at his hands, still shaking. "Maybe I am a failure."

"No," Lucian said. "You’re human."

Elian flinched at the word.

"That’s what scares her," Lucian added. "We weren’t meant to grieve like machines. Or survive like ghosts."

There was a long pause.

Then Elian shook his head. "You want me to believe I’m more than her tool?"

"No," Lucian said. "I want you to believe it."

The echo of their spell still clung to the chamber walls, a warm glow under the frost and dust. The shattered throne looked almost peaceful now, as if the King had finally laid down a weight he carried for centuries.

Alice entered the chamber then, followed by Merry and Cadrel. All were cautious—eyes darting between the shattered ice and the two morticians now standing side by side.