From Corpse to Crown: Reborn as a Mortician in Another World-Chapter 23: The Blessed Return

The longer Lucian stayed in town, the shorter his patience.

He lingered for days, watching the patterns. The way the town ticked forward in perfect rhythm. Every day, at sunset, the laborers dropped slips of old brown paper into a dented iron box outside the chapel.

Not a word exchanged. Just the shuffle of feet, and paper, and the lid clinking closed.

And then he heard it. Whispers in the alleyways, murmured between delivery carts and cleaning buckets:

"Almost time for the Blessed Return..."

Blessed Return?

+

That night, an invitation arrived. When Lucian returned to the carriage to sleep, the driver handed him a sealed note and a key card. There were a few words scrawled in rust-colored ink:

Guests deserve a proper bed, especially in Staesis! Stay in the King's Quarters—you must be well-rested for the Blessed Return. 

You should watch.

"Is this from the mayor? Why can't they just meet me in the square?" He sighed and grabbed the key card. "Sorry. Just reeks of...'professionalism.'

The driver agreed. "Politicians are slimier than nobles, but...Staesis's mayor is...something else."

Lucian chose not to ask. Instead, they headed to a tall apartment building, better-maintained than most of the shops in the town, with a sign declaring "The King's Quarters—even better than home."

Their suite was reasonably clean and was large enough to comfortably fit two beds--one double and a single. A vase filled with perfumed herbs was in the middle of the coffee table, and there was a note with some snacks in a basket:

Complimentary nutrition for our first living guest in 50 years.

It was nice, but Lucian couldn't help feeling it was more a performance than anything else. The snacks were sent from another town, and the receptionist was a little too eager to get all three of them checked in--even the driver was a guest to Mayor Gray.

There were no personal touches, only efficiency and design that appealed to a wide variety of people.

I miss home already. Lucian sighed and thought of Earth, and the mortician's bedroom in the palace.

+

The public square was more crowded than he'd ever seen it.

Lucian stood beside Rosa, hidden in the clocktower overlooking the theater. The laborers filled the plaza in silent rows, and every face was turned toward the stage.

No one coughed, whispered, or ate. A figure in gray robes stepped forward with a box—the box, the one the slips were dropped into. Lucian couldn't see their face, and watched as a thin hand reached in.

Rosa gripped Lucian's arm tightly, like she sensed something was wrong.

The robed figure unfolded a slip.

"Carla Brown."

A woman in the fifth row whimpered, eyes wide. She stood and walked toward the stage. Her legs buckled, but she didn't fall. Carla turned, slowly, toward the crowd behind her and pointed, voice half-panicked.

"Take her, not me!" Lucian followed her finger as it locked onto a young girl—barely ten, by the looks of it.

"Take her! Please—she's stronger than I am—she's so much better!"

There was a stunned silence from the townspeople. The girl stared back, frozen and confused.

Wisps of smoke formed into six featureless faces with bound arms. Their long sleeves dragged along the ground like burial cloth. They did not speak and surrounded the poor girl like large imposing monoliths.

A moment later, her little head tilted and her expression slackened. The little girl didn't fall, but her body moved like someone else had taken the reins. With a soft pop, the ghostly figures vanished along with the girl's body.

People started shuffling out of the theater, and the work resumed. It was like nothing happened, like it was normal.

Lucian clenched his jaw. Rosa turned her face away and held her own stomach, desperate for some comfort. A slow clap echoed from the crowd—polite, but the laughter that followed was clearly enjoying themselves.

The Spymaster stood out from the crowd in his carnival-red coat, body leaned against his seat among others in the theater. "What a delightfully efficient community!"

Lucian's knuckles turned white as he held onto his cane. As if responding to his feelings, the crowd grew a touch louder and people looked more animated. He was about to stand when—

"Keep calm," a new voice interrupted. "No need for hostility. This is a civic ceremony, after all."

A tall, lean man in a navy coat with ivory buttons and a too-white smile placed his hand on Lucian's shoulder. His hair was slicked back and his boots were impeccably shiny.

Lucian winced as the hand dug into his shoulder. "Mayor Arvis Gray," he said. "A pleasure, Mortician Bowcott."

"Thank you," Lucian replied. The pain on his shoulder distracted him and the death grip on his cane loosened. He didn't see how the laborers' eyes glazed over and they stopped mumbling to themselves.

The Spymaster, however, was intrigued.

Interesting. So the cane is sapping their tranquility potions...the creature's smile grew alarmingly large and crooked—a few toddlers choked back screams next to him.

"Yes," the mayor said, unbothered. He let go of Lucian's shoulder. "Chosen by her mother, in fact. Pragmatic, don't you think?"

Lucian was appalled. "She was a child."

Mayor Gray sighed. "A regrettable display of emotion, but such things are bound to happen. Thankfully, the Whisperbound are skilled at de-escalation."

Rosa stepped forward. "What happens to her now?"

"She works," the mayor said, smiling again. "Just like all the Blessed do."

Lucian's voice was flat. "She's possessed."

"She's employed," Gray corrected. "Our system ensures peace, productivity, and longevity. We are very proud."

"Longevity?"

"The Blessed Return grants another year of operational order. We honor the pact, we continue to thrive."

Lucian stared at the girl in the crowd—already sweeping the plaza with a broom, robotic and blank.

It wasn't a mistake or a glitch.

This was the rule.

+

The next morning, Lucian returned to the mayor's office. Unlike the rest of Staseis, the building was incredibly polished. Dark oak-paneled walls and blue velvet curtains. It all smelled of ink and lemon oil--polite ways of telling decay it was not welcome here.

Mayor Gray was in the middle of writing when Lucian entered, and did not stand to greet him.

"Mortician Bowcott," he said smoothly. "I assume you're here with questions. Most newcomers do, after their first Return."

Lucian didn't bother with pleasantries. "I want access to the original rites. Your records on body deceleration. And a list of the last ten 'Blessed'."

Gray blinked, smiled thinly.

"I'm afraid that falls under our civil agreement."

Lucian's eyes narrowed. "With whom?"

"The Crown, of course. It is a delicate treaty—one I have sworn to uphold. We're granted operational independence. And in exchange, the civic functions continue."

Lucian took a slow breath.

"Function? Your town is dead. You're dragging people across the finish line one step at a time."

Gray folded his hands. "Efficiently. Quietly. Without rebellion. That is what we promised."

Lucian leaned across the desk, voice low and cold. "You're sacrificing people into soul-rot."

"We're sacrificing nothing," Gray said, ever-calm. "They continue. They contribute. Their usefulness does not end with breath."

Lucian slammed his hand on the desk.

"I'm not asking for semantics. I'm telling you: Rosa has two days before her decay pattern resets and she's overwritten. If I don't act, she becomes another vessel."

Gray's smile flickered. Just slightly.

"Then perhaps you should act, Mortician. Within your jurisdiction. But as for our rites..."

He leaned back, steepling his fingers.

"...civil agreement."