From Corpse to Crown: Reborn as a Mortician in Another World-Chapter 59: The Bell that Wouldn’t Stop Ringing

When he crossed into the Vale, Cadrel didn’t speak. Which wasn’t saying much--he remained silent ever since the Chateau. He thought they would question him, but they just let him be.

As they passed into the shifting fog of the Vale’s memory-field, he already knew words weren’t needed.

The place itself knew what he carried, and the weight of it on his heart.

Suddenly, Cadrel found himself alone in a tunnel, heartbeat loud in his ears. He tried to get his bearings. Wet stone, a faint scent of rust, and chalk marks were drawn all over the walls.

He blinked.

No...not this.

The torches flickered.

Then the bell rang.

Once. 𝐟𝕣𝕖𝐞𝐰𝕖𝚋𝐧𝗼𝚟𝐞𝕝.𝗰𝐨𝐦

Twice.

Echoing forever.

All of Carrel’s strength left him, and he fell to his knees as the memory took hold.

+

It was supposed to be a simple mission.

Given to them directly from Prince Alexander--just after he escaped his brother’s betrayal. They had contacted a royal courier who wanted Mayor Gray put in his place.

Cadrel and the Mortician Defense Unit had to escort her through the mountain tunnels and locate an old blacksmith, her father, hidden near the border.

"My father crafted weapons that shimmered with runes even the fiercest undead feared to touch. You will not regret this, your majesty."

Cadrel had been one of six in the unit. He wasn’t the fastest, the cleverest, or the strongest. Instead, he was the youngest and most obedient. He reassured himself that in case he messed up, there were five others who could steer him toward the right path.

They made it deep into the third chamber when the bell sounded from somewhere deep in the mines. No one knew why it rang--or why it sounded just like the abandoned bell tower.

But from the growling and scratching sounds that were steadily growing louder...

It definitely meant they weren’t alone anymore.

+

The creatures had come next. They weren’t quite corpses or ghosts--more like grief given a sentient form. Sometimes they were hands that dissolved into screaming children, their black eyes shining with someone else’s memories.

And then they came closer, and Cadrel saw tentacles sprout from their backs, like butterfly wings.

Cadrel had frozen. Not because he was panicking, but in grief. It was like he accepted their eventual defeat and death. He felt it bloom inside his heart like rot.

He’d been given a choice.

And Cadrel didn’t run, shout, or fight.

Instead he just knelt there, heart beating like the bell itself, as the others fought and, consequently, were torn apart around him.

He survived.

Because he didn’t move.

+

The Vale made him relive it in slow motion.

He saw the terror on everyone’s faces, and heard their screams like it just happened yesterday.

The blood that hissed when it hit the cold tunnel floor.

Cadrel watched himself over and over—kneeling, wide-eyed, watching Ralwen try to hold a barrier glyph together with his fingers. Watching Damien scream for someone to toss him a blade. Watching Lieutenant Hemlocke fall with his lungs torn open.

And the bell. Always the bell.

Ringing without rhythm. Not as a warning.

It was like a sentence.

"You’re the one who stayed still," the Vale whispered.

"You’re the one who mourned before they were dead."

He tried to move.

But the walls pulsed with that same low ring.

[Ritual Echo: Survivor’s Guilt — Immobilization Protocol]

[Memory Feedback Intensity: High]

[Emotion Anchor Detected: "I wasn’t enough."]

Cadrel’s knees hit the stone again.

His voice broke into a hoarse whisper. "I didn’t mean to live."

The walls bled with names. His entire unit, written in neat little letters across every available surface.

He was thankful the Vale didn’t write it in blood.

And then, something worse.

His name was written at the top, like he had been the one sent to die first.

And somehow, he just refused.

He didn’t know how long he stayed there.

But then—

a hand touched his shoulder.

Gentle.

He looked up.

Lucian.

And behind him, Alice—face unreadable, but eyes full of something he hadn’t seen in a long time.

Recognition.

That had been their first meeting.

Cadrel had thought they were hallucinations at the time. He hadn’t known how long he’d wandered aboveground after the tunnel. How he’d murmured their names in his sleep for weeks. How Alice had stitched his torn coat, even when he refused to wear it.

He hadn’t known how to let them in.

But they’d come anyway.

+

And waited.

The Vale changed.

The tunnel fell away like paper peeled off skin.

Now Cadrel stood in a field of bells.

Hanging from branches.

Buried in grass.

Spilling from the mouths of stone statues carved like the people he’d failed.

He walked between them.

The bells chimed.

None of them rang violently.

They whispered.

Why didn’t you move?

Why didn’t you try?

Why were you spared?

And one, smallest of all, asked:

Why haven’t you forgiven yourself?

Cadrel stopped walking.

His priest’s blade was still sheathed at his side.

He hadn’t drawn it once since that day in the tunnels.

It had simply become ceremonial.

A symbol of what he used to think he could be.

He drew it now.

And not to fight.

To lay it down.

At the center of the field stood a shrine—a place not of worship, but of witness.

Cadrel placed the blade there.

And with shaking fingers, pulled from his pouch the torn patch of his old unit.

Still singed from the tunnel collapse. Still stained.

He placed it beside the blade.

And said the names.

One by one.

Until the bell stopped ringing.

At the edge of the field, a light rose.

It wasn’t gold.

It was gray—soft, unsure.

But it drew him forward.

Toward a massive loom.

And the figure seated before it.

The Spinnermaid, veiled and unmoving, guided threads through a warp of grief and memory.

She didn’t turn when he approached.

Only spoke:

"You did not fail because you grieved."

Cadrel said nothing.

"You failed because you grieved alone."

The threads shimmered. Some were knotted. Others frayed. One had snapped entirely.

"I can teach you how to weave it differently," she said. "How to shape emotion into memory that does not hurt when touched."

Cadrel’s voice rasped. "But why me?"

"You survived," the Spinnermaid said, "and still came here."

He bowed his head.

"I don’t want to be the best at grief," he said. "I just want to stop being the last one left."

She reached out, gloved hand hovering near his chest—but didn’t touch him.

"One of you may carry my technique," she said. "Only one."

Cadrel closed his eyes.

And stepped back.

He didn’t know if he’d be chosen.

But for the first time since the tunnels,

he no longer feared the silence.