Thick, gloomy clouds hung low over the cemetery. A faint dampness lingered in the air. A crow flapped its wings and landed lightly on a gravestone, preening its feathers. Its crimson eyes reflected two sneaking figures.

The cold wind howled mournfully tonight, sharp wails slicing through the graveyard like the cries of restless spirits. It cast an eerie, keep-out chill over the desolate burial ground.

Anna Carole pulled her tattered ochre robe tighter, head slightly bowed. As the wind gusted, her hands—tucked deep in her sleeves—shot up to clutch the hood shielding her face, terrified of exposure.

Her face wasn’t a secret. Many in Arvin Hamlet had seen Anna. Neighbors often joked she could’ve lived off her looks alone, yet stubbornly relied on her utterly unreliable talent.

But tonight, her furtive steps had one reason: a decision defying ancestral law.

She was going to dig up a grave.

“Are we really doing this?”

The other robed girl clung close to Anna. Beneath her hood, her delicate face was etched with fear. Her watery eyes shimmered with unshed tears—practically screaming *I’m about to cry*.

Anna glanced sideways. *After all these years, your courage hasn’t grown an inch. Such a strong fighter, held back by sheer timidity.*

She lifted her gaze to the sliver of moon peeking through the clouds. Resolve hardened. Without turning back, she tossed over her shoulder:

“We’ve got no other choice, have we?”

Shirley Lucyce recalled the guild’s grim state. She yanked her robe tight, wrapped herself snugly, and gave a weak nod.

Anna knew Shirley’s nature well—timid, and not exactly sharp.

With someone like that, a little coaxing worked wonders.

Truth was, the guild wouldn’t collapse for two more months. But without that lie, Shirley would never have followed her deeper for this crucial ritual.

“But… is this place *really* safe?”

Even Shirley knew she stood on hallowed ground. She tiptoed, eyes locked on the dirt, flinching at every twig and beetle, as if expecting a corpse to burst from a tombstone. Unlike Anna, she feared not discovery—but the unclean things lurking in the dark.

Anna sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I’ve told you—this cemetery’s been abandoned twenty-seven years. I scouted it twice. Relax. This creepy place has zero wandering spirits.”

Shirley trembled. “You literally said *creepy* place.”

“Adjective! Do you know what an adjective is?”

Before Anna could continue, Shirley froze—rooted like a pillar.

“Scared by a mouse again?” Anna turned back.

Shirley shook her head, thoughtful. “We’re here.” She pointed. “This is the spot.”

…

…

“Third row, fifth one—definitely it!”

Darkness swallowed the land. The last moonlight vanished behind clouds.

In the pitch-black cemetery, crows perched on stones and iron fences, watching the two living figures at the center, silent and still.

Ritual items encircled a gravestone in a perfect ring.

The soil at its heart had been dug open. A skeleton lay within, arms crossed over its chest, resting in eternal slumber.

Anna stood before it, took a deep breath, pulled a crimson vial from her robe, popped the stopper, and shook it swiftly. A faint blood-red mist curled from the rim.

Shirley huddled aside, eyes darting nervously around the graveyard.

“Shake the Soul Stake Elixir thirty times until crimson smoke appears…” Anna murmured the ancient text. *Success only. No failure.* Her wrist flicked rapidly, counting each shake.

At thirty, the mist thickened—vivid as a rose blooming midair.

“Good. Enough.”

A satisfied smile touched her lips. She tilted the vial. Drops fell onto a knife beneath the bones, then traced a curve through the air, linking each item as she moved.

“Ironbug hide, black dragonfly wings, white beast fang, frost-thunder flower… Three-headed hound heart, six-dragon blood clot, shell of Mount Demonrock…”

She moved steadily, murmuring names, utterly absorbed—deaf to the wind, blind to Shirley leaping four meters after a twig snapped.

Back at the start, the vial was perfectly empty.

Even Anna, veteran of a thousand failed rituals, smiled.

“Perfect!” She clapped once, tucked the vial away.

Only the incantation remained—her weakest skill. But no griffin-eyed teacher loomed nearby. She could cheat openly, no shame.

She opened the ancient tome, cleared her throat, and began chanting slowly, precisely.

The words were bizarre, some syllables unnatural to human throats—but Anna pronounced every glyph flawlessly.

The wind shrieked louder.

Crows scattered in panic. Gravestones trembled violently, as if the buried dead stirred.

Shirley had fled to a distant tree, clinging tight, eyes wide with terror and wonder.

Wind ripped Anna’s hood away. Crimson hair whipped wildly. Pages of the tome fluttered chaotically—but she no longer cared. The chant neared its end. She could finish it blind.

The cemetery shuddered.

Clouds above swirled in frantic cycles.

“O great Goddess of Death, Azutha! Lift the Mist of the Death Spring from this corpse! Consume my offerings! Fulfill this ritual destined for history!”

Silence.

An invisible force slammed down. Every ritual item shattered to dust.

Blood gushed from every tombstone, forming massive crimson hands that surged toward the skeleton. In an instant, they melted, vaporized, and swirled into mist—enveloping the bones, lifting them skyward.

The mist wove through ribs, weaving flesh: muscle, nerve, vessel, organ—rebuilding life.

“Whoa… it actually worked!”

Anna jumped, waving wildly. “Shirley! Come quick! Look!”

After a hesitant pause, Shirley crept closer.

“It… really succeeded?” She stared at the forming man. A chill crept up her spine. She stepped back, eyes narrowing at Anna. “Your rituals *never* work. Are you possessed by a Parasite Demon?”

Anna’s eye twitched. Hands on hips, chin high: “I *am* the most talented in the Goddess of Death’s sect! Past fails? Low-grade materials. This? Two years of prep. Of *course* it worked.”

True. Shirley had watched her pour blood, sweat, and coin into gathering these components. Maybe the Goddess had finally smiled upon her.

The mist faded.

A new body drifted down, landing softly.

Anna rushed forward. First successful ritual—*resurrection*, no less. A feat nearly mythical in sect history. Wealth. Fame. A radiant future beckoned…

Then her smile vanished.

“What’s wrong?” Shirley blinked. “You look like you ate three-day-expired canned herring after two nights of constipation.”

Anna shot her a glare. “Dummy. Remember the legendary guildmaster from the textbook? The great Mediator… what did he look like?”

“I remember. Why?”

Anna’s gut tightened. She pointed at the sleeping man. “Go check. Doesn’t he look… *different*?”

Shirley leaned in. Stared. Longer. Paler. Sweat beaded on her brow.

She forced a painfully fake smile and shuffled back, trembling.

“Um…” Her voice was a mosquito’s whisper. “Seems… definitely not the same face.”

They locked eyes.

Two minds, one horrifying realization.

“Holy crap…” Anna’s legs buckled. She plopped onto the cold ground.

“Did we dig up the wrong grave?”