From Corpse to Crown: Reborn as a Mortician in Another World-Chapter 77: What the Flame Didn’t Burn

After telling Michael about what happened in Chateau Magnifique, the Tallowman nodded. "That is quite the story. Taking down an ice king with the person you’re supposed to capture."

"Pretty much. And then the Grimoire reported what happened, as always. And then it was time for punishment."

Michael raised an eyebrow. "That doesn’t sound very good."

Elian chuckled darkly, and lifted his neck. In the candlelight, the glyphs tattooed on his skin glowed. "It wasn’t. But they needed a way to keep me in line. Some of these aren’t all awful. There are a few meant to give me a power boost."

But even as the words left his mouth, he couldn’t help feeling like he was repeating a lie.

I mean, seriously. When it comes to the Spymaster, what is the truth, anyway?

+

Before they continued their conversation, Michael brewed them another cup of tea. This time it smelled sweet, like cookies. "Someone had a stall in the food market yesterday and were selling dessert tea. It sounded interesting, so I got some."

In Elian’s opinion, it was brilliant. This way he didn’t need a snack with his drink, and hit two birds with one stone. As he drank his tea, Elian kept staring at the flickering candle in front of him.

The flame was uneven, shaped like a reaching hand—crooked fingers grasping for something that couldn’t be held.

"I’ve always been good at following orders," Elian said finally, voice quiet.

The Tallowman didn’t respond. He sat across the table in a patchwork robe that smelled faintly of rose wax and charred cedar. A teacup rested in his own hands, but he hadn’t drunk from it yet.

"Mmhm," he said while waiting.

"It’s not a boast," Elian added. "It’s a confession."

The Tallowman stirred. "Mm. Following orders and understanding them aren’t the same thing."

Elian nodded. "It wasn’t my job to understand. Just enforce."

Absently, he touched an old scar on his palm. His very first glyph burn, in the shape of a crown.

It was long faded, but never healed properly. One of the Shadow Court’s instructors called it a reminder of his first training failure.

When the Queen arrived, Elian thought she would punish the instructor for hurting her favored mortician. Instead, she hadn’t erased it with a spell or a threat.

"Every day at the Shadow Court started with a roll call and ended with silence." Elian confided. "We were never told who we were. Only who we needed to become."

It was a blur of bitter days when the Shadow Court instructor wanted more from them. But there were a few days in between when they received praise and treats for their progress.

"The Queen visited many times...but said nothing."

"And yet you remember it," the Tallowman said.

Elian looked up.

The candlelight softened the lines of the older man’s face. He looked more wax than flesh, like one of his own statues come to life.

"I remember when I first saw her," he said slowly. "She wore a white coat and gloves that never wrinkled. I thought she was an angel." It didn’t even register in his mind that the Queen in front of him was missing half of her face. The other half was smooth ivory bone.

"Later on, I didn’t think she was real. She never blinked. When my Grimoire opened without my touch, she acknowledged me."

"And what did your Grimoire say?"

Elian’s throat tightened.

"I am the shadow you left behind."

That was the first line it ever recorded. And even now, it flickered behind his eyes when he tried to sleep.

He set his teacup down.

"I was supposed to be Lucian’s replacement."

The words dropped into the room like coins in a satchel.

The Tallowman didn’t move.

"I think she made me in case he failed," Elian continued. "I think... I wasn’t meant to feel anything about that."

"Do you?"

Elian was silent.

Then: "I don’t know what failure looks like anymore. She trained me to see emotions as interference. Hesitation as heresy. I didn’t mourn my instructors when they disappeared. I didn’t question the glyphs they etched into my skin."

He rolled back his sleeve and showed the faint blue shimmer beneath.

"Not all of them healed. Some were never meant to."

The Tallowman nodded, not with pity, but quiet acknowledgment.

"Pain does not always mean damage," he said. "But it’s still a signal."

He stood and crossed the room to a narrow shelf hidden behind a wax-covered curtain. He returned holding a small wooden box.

Elian stiffened instinctively. The training was hard to unlearn.

"Relax," the Tallowman said. "It’s not a test."

He set the box down gently and opened it.

Inside was a locket. Bronze. Simple.

"This was a gift," the Tallowman said. "From someone I loved. A long time ago."

Elian stared.

"Mima?"

The Tallowman smiled softly. "Yes. Before she died, she brought this to me. She couldn’t speak, of course. But she placed it in my hand. And waited until I closed my fingers around it."

Elian reached forward slowly.

There was no glyph on it. No enchanted seal. Not even a locking mechanism.

Just warmth.

"This isn’t magical," Elian said.

"No. It’s worse," the Tallowman said. "It’s sentimental."

Elian blinked.

"I kept it because I wanted to," the Tallowman added. "Not because I had to. Not because it served a function. Not because it carried weight in a rite."

He met Elian’s eyes.

"Wanting something... that’s harder. But it’s worth more."

Elian stared down at the locket. It was too small to hold power. Too old to hold relevance.

But it was warm. And it was real.

He set it back down carefully.

"I don’t know what I want," he admitted. "Only what I’ve lost."

"Then you’ve already begun," the Tallowman said. "Want and grief are neighbors. They live on the same street in the soul."

+

Later, Elian found himself in the small wax garden behind the sanctuary.

It was early evening, and the sun burned orange through the glass-stained fence. He wandered between the wax statues—silent guardians of remembered names.

He paused at one he hadn’t noticed before.

A boy, no older than ten. Kneeling. Hands clasped around a candle that would never burn down.

The plaque read:

"Remembered Before He Could Become."

Elian stared at it for a long time.

Then he whispered:

"I think that was almost me."

No one answered. But a wind moved through the garden, and every candle flickered—once, like a nod.

He lowered himself to the ground, letting his knees touch the soil. Letting the silence fill him again.

But this time, it didn’t hurt.

It comforted.

It cracked something.

He closed his eyes.

"I don’t want to be her replacement anymore," he whispered.

He said it again, louder:

"I don’t want to be what she made."

And then softer:

"I think I want... to be known."

Far from the wax garden, a thread burned slightly brighter in Lucian’s Loom.

The name beside it wavered, just once.

And the Grimoire recorded a rare entry:

13th Designation – Emotional Anchor Acquired.

"Subject 13 has begun divergence."