《System Expedition: Netherworld [ Returnee LitRPG Apocalypse ]》 Chapter 1 : Afterlife~ I kicked the bucket. Yep, checked out, bought the farm, bit the dust became ex-parrot¡­ well, that''s the basic idea. Not exactly breaking news for me at this point, seeing as my internal monologue was stuck on repeat, like the world''s worst TikTok soundbite looping in my skull: Died. In. My. Sleep. Yeah. Sleeping. The one activity specifically designed not to kill you. My mind kept buffering on that grim little 5-second clip, an infinite loop of anticlimax. Died. In. My. Sleep. Over and over. Thanks, brain. Real helpful. It almost makes me want to laugh, or scream, or whatever the non-corporeal equivalent is. Remember hearing those stories growing up? About some ol'' Mr. Henderson, the neighbourhood grandpa type, who just... didn''t wake up one morning? Passed peacefully, they''d whisper, like it was some kind of gentle reward. Yeah, peaceful. Never in a million years thought I''d be joining that club, especially not at thirty-one. Okay, fine, there were a few... complications... a couple of twists compared to ol'' Mr. Henderson''s that I hadn''t banked on, but the ending? Still landed with the same dull thud: Died. In. My. Sleep. No dramatic exit music. No slow-motion flashbacks of my life¡¯s most questionable choices ¡ª not even a glorious battle scene with blood spraying across the walls and my body crushed in some heroically dumb pose. Nope. Just... poof. Finito. Kupta. Staring into the afterlife darkness ¨C which, honestly, felt less like a terrifying cosmic void and more ''forgot-to-pay-the-electric-bill'' black ¨C wasn''t doing much to distract me from my internal broken record. The void wasn''t offering answers, just a whole lot of loneliness. And then, just as the sheer crushing boredom threatened to become the new worst part of being dead, the nothingness flickered. SYSTEM CRASH REPORT ¡ª ERROR D.404 INITIATING INTEGRATION PROTOCOL v.1011.DDefsd427 System. Okay. Completely unexpected. Does this work in the afterlife too? The Integration Protocol. Been rolling out for thirty years, drip by drip, snagging the tiny percentage of the population born every year. Rumours, classified leaks, hushed conversations about people developing weird abilities or just... disappearing after exhibiting them. We all knew about it, even if the specifics were buried under layers of bureaucracy and denial. But this? Continuing integration post-mortem? That wasn''t in any of the whispered theories or conspiracy forums. The assumption was always that it targeted the living. The unexpected, almost aggressive blueness of it punched a spike of something cold and sharp through my non-existent gut. Phantom adrenaline. So, death wasn''t an opt-out clause. The System was apparently inescapable even in death. It just changed the processing. Great. My attention locked onto the screen as a new line appeared beneath the text, accompanied by a stark white bar: ?PROGRESS: [>-------------------] 0.00%? I watched, morbidly fascinated, as the tiny sliver indicating progress flickered, maybe expanded by a single pixel, and the percentage ticked over. ?PROGRESS: [>-------------------] 0.01%? Oh, come ON! Zero point zero one percent? Seriously? At this crawl, post-mortem processing was going to take longer than the heat death of the universe. This wasn''t integration; this was system torture. That''s going to be a long wait. With a mental flick, like swatting away a particularly persistent and depressing fly ¡ª or perhaps more accurately, like closing an agonizingly slow download window, ah, reminds me of the good old days ¡ª I poofed the system display out of my immediate perception. If I was going to be stuck here, I wasn''t going to spend it watching the equivalent of cosmic paint dry. Dismissing the progress bar forced me to actually look around again, to properly take in my surroundings now that I have some possibilities. Real possibilities. The main point was that I wasn''t alone in this budget-bin afterlife. Oh no. Around me, a sea of vaguely human outlines stretched out in eerily neat lines. Thousands? Millions? Enough people to make a music festival seem like a small get-together. All just floating there... Hang On. Tapping my foot, I felt it make contact with something solid ¡ª cold, smooth, reassuringly there. So, not floating then. Standing. In the mother of all queues. Then things went from mind-numbingly dull to genuinely unsettling. A ripple moved through the endless line ahead of me. Like a slow, beige wave in a stadium full of ghosts. Countless right feet shuffled forward, one single, perfectly synchronized step. Shhk. The sound wasn''t real, more like the idea of thousands of sensible ghost-shoes scraping across some unseen floor. Before my brain could fully process the wrongness of it, my own body mirrored the movement. Right foot forward. Shhk. Okay, fine, maybe I was a fraction of a second late. Then the shhk echoed from behind me as the next person in line followed suit, the delayed wave rippling back down the endless queue. That''s entertainment. Delayed synchronized shuffling. Creepy doesn''t even begin to cover it. Right. Okay. Deep, non-existent breaths. Ignore the terrifyingly organized ghost mob doing the conga line of eternity. And the slow patch update happening somewhere in the background... ?PROGRESS: [>-------------------] 0.09%? Great. Still glacial. The real kicker, the cosmic joke that had me grinding my phantom teeth, wasn''t the waiting, wasn''t the void, wasn''t the synchronized shuffling, even the system integration was getting old. It was How.
  1. Died. In. My. Sleep. When I had the best chance to survive.
Only a little dose of [ [ S ] Dreamveil ], and bam. I''m here. Stuck. In what I''m charitably calling Afterlife Lite?: The Queue That Never Ends. And that smug git, Ronald. He''s probably back there, alive, having a good laugh, breathing my air, maybe even stealing my exotic collections. After all, he was the one with barely any chance of surviving the night. With no answers coming from the void, the shuffling masses, or the barely-moving progress bar, my mind started to do what minds do best when faced with the irreversible: obsessively replay the tape. Trying to pinpoint the exact moment, the one tiny decision I could have made differently to get a better result.
Thump-thump. A low pulse vibrated from the crimson leather tome, a rhythm unnervingly close to a heartbeat beneath my fingers as I turned the page. Chapter 41 - Carving Nerves and Blood Vessels¡­ Tucked away in my usual bolthole, a blessedly shadowed corner of the Research Base lab affectionately dubbed The Shadow Shelf ¨C mostly because it was perpetually dim, smelled faintly of old paper and ozone, and was conveniently just outside Director ''Eagle Eyes'' Thornton usual patrol route. Our little slice of heaven for under-the-books R&R, aka hiding from actual work. Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. The air hummed with the low thrum of arcane machinery and the scent of sterile cleansers barely masking something metallic underneath. Across the lab, Silas was hunched over some bubbling glassware, muttering threats at what looked suspiciously like green black goo that was fighting back. Further down, Lyra was sketching furiously, occasionally glancing up with eyes that held the slightly manic gleam of someone running on caffeine and pure, unadulterated genius ¨C or possibly just caffeine. Pretty standard Tuesday, all things considered. I¡¯d barely gotten through the page when a shadow fell over my book, blotting out the fancy crimson writing I had been pretending not to be fascinated by. "Reading up on another exotic manual, Tristan?" Ah, Isabel Branch. Her voice was as dry as desert bones and twice as judgmental. She didn¡¯t even try to hide the sarcasm curling around each word like smoke. I glanced up, pasting on my best ''who, me?'' innocent smile¡ªan expression that, historically, had never convinced anyone. She wasn''t even looking at the book. Didn''t need to. The ominous leather cover alone would probably set off half a dozen security wards, and the title ¡ª Advanced Blood Magic: Curses, Hexes and Havoc (With Illustrations) ¡ª was embossed in shimmering red symbols that pulsed gently, like a heartbeat. Like a tiny, evil, very illegal heartbeat. Thump-thump. "Oh, this old thing?" I tried, casually closing it halfway. "Just some light reading. You know, expanding my horizons, embracing intellectual curiosity¡­ Definitely not actively violating several ethical guidelines in the process." I tapped the cover. Thump-thump. Yup. Still beating. I probably shouldn¡¯t have had it. And I definitely shouldn¡¯t have been reading it inside the highly regulated, easily alarmed Research Base. Not that it was enough to get me killed ¡ª probably. Technically, it was sort of within regulation. Well. Near regulation¡­ if you squinted at the regulations. And interpreted "restricted to licensed personnel with Level X clearance and a signed waiver from the Court" as more of a friendly suggestion. Though with my luck, I¡¯d get a public dressing down at best. Or, gods forbid, a deduction from my already pitiful salary ¡ª a fate far crueler than death, especially when said salary was barely sustaining my rapidly dwindling lifespan. She arched an eyebrow ¡ª the kind of eyebrow raise that could strip paint from a wall. ¡°Tristan, that book is humming. And glowing. And I¡¯m fairly certain it''s alive." I slid my hand over the cover like I could shush it. ¡°It¡¯s just¡­expressive.¡± Thump-thump. She crossed her arms, tapping a foot. ¡°You know I should report this.¡± Without breaking eye contact, I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a folded parchment, the edges charred from hasty ward-burning. ¡°Freshly marked,¡± I said, sliding it toward her. ¡°F-grade dungeon. Just outside Ashmere Province. Low interference, stable anomaly. Should be good for at least fifty souls.¡± It was a small price, I reasoned, considering I did set her lab on fire about a month ago. And maybe twenty¡­ biological samples¡­ met an untimely, flame-broiled end. Details, details. She unfolded the map, eyes scanning the markings, fingers trailing over the sigils I¡¯d inked in red. ¡°This legit?¡± I shrugged. ¡°Would I lie to you, Izzy?¡± She gave me the look. ¡°Okay, fine, I¡¯d absolutely lie to you, but not about this. It¡¯s clean.¡± She exhaled sharply, then folded the map and tucked it into her jacket. ¡°That¡¯s enough for a week.¡± "What? That''s not how this works¡ª" My indignant retort was cut short. Flicker. Flicker. POP. The main overhead lights died with the sound of a small, sad firecracker. For half a second, absolute darkness swallowed the lab. Then ¨C WUM¡­ WUM¡­ WUM¡­ ¨C the emergency lights kicked in, bathing everything in that oh-so-calming, pulsing, blood-red glow. Really highlighted the ominous thrumming coming from my illegal book. Fantastic. We both froze. Even the sentient goo seemed to pause its ominous bubbling. Across the lab, Silas jerked upright so fast he nearly sent a rack of questionable glowing vials crashing down. "Oh, hell no! I am not cleaning up another containment breach." "That wasn''t a drill... right?" Lyra asked, her voice suddenly small. She was already drifting towards the wall terminal, caffeine-fueled genius momentarily short-circuited by actual alarm. "They tell us about drills. Usually. Don''t they?" ¡°Unless we¡¯ve started holding drills without warning and with full Arcane lockdown... probably not.¡± My own voice sounded far calmer than I felt. A knot of unease tightened in my stomach. Something was very, very wrong. Isabel was already doing her frantic finger-painting routine on the glowing terminal. Sweat slicked her brow, catching the pulsating crimson emergency light. "Wards are up. Like, all the way up," She finally looked up, eyes wide. ¡°That only happens if something broke out... or someone broke in.¡± BWAAA! BWAAA! BWAAA! The klaxon shrieked and base-wide intercom crackled overhead, the speaker burst to life: "Enemy Attack! I repeat, enemy attack in Lab A2. All soldiers, head to Bay Area Four Four Three, WEAPONS HOT! Researchers, initiate loca¡ª" SCHLICK! The Captain''s order cut off mid-word, replaced by sounds no one ever wants to hear over an intercom. A sharp, metallic tearing sound, like a blade carving through steel... and something softer underneath. A wet, sickening sound. Then the unmistakable sound of¡ª SPLASH. A choked scream, instantly cut short. Then¡­ a THUMP. Heavy. Final. Like dropping a sack of potatoes. Wet potatoes. The speaker fizzled, stuttered¡ªthen went too quiet. A smoother, almost¡­ pleasant voice followed, "Terribly sorry about that interruption. Please remain calm and stay put while the rescue is underway." I blinked, my mind struggling to process the sudden shift. Wait. No... it couldn''t be¡ª? Every head in the lab ¨C Isabel, Lyra clutching her data slate, Silas shrinking near the cooling unit ¨C swiveled towards me. Not just looking, but staring. Their faces, bathed in the rhythmic red pulses of the emergency lights, were canvases of dawning horror, confusion sliding into raw, pointed suspicion. Ah, hell. Ice water seemed to inject itself directly into my veins, creeping up my spine. They recognized it too. Of course, they did. Everyone did. That was the voice of Empress Rosalia Tempestyr. My Empress. The woman I¡¯d sworn allegiance to, whose Imperial faction held my loyalty. "Tristan?" Lyra¡¯s voice trembled. "What in the Nine Hells is happening?" "Do you know anything? Are we safe?" Isabel grabbed my arm, her grip surprisingly fierce, knuckles white. Her eyes bored into mine, demanding answers I didn''t have. "Tristan. What is going on?" I could only shake my head. "I don''t know. Gods, I swear, I have no idea. This is..." SLAM! CRUNCH! THUNK! The reinforced lab door crashed shut, the sound was deafening, echoing in the suddenly claustrophobic space. Heavy bolts shot home with metallic thunks, sealing us in. Red indicator lights above the frame flared to life. LOCKED. SECURE. "No!" Lyra cried, stumbling back. Isabel flinched, hand flying to her mouth. Trapped. We were well and truly trapped. And that''s never good news. "Maybe... maybe it''s just a glitch?" Silas whispered, wringing his hands, his eyes darting nervously between me and the reinforced door. "A localized containment field malfunction? It doesn''t have to be... disastrous, right?" Nobody was buying it. My own thoughts churned, a frantic scramble for logic in a situation rapidly dissolving into nightmare. "Or maybe," a new voice cut through the strained silence, sharp and cold as chipped ice, "it''s a purge." We all jumped. Standing over by a workstation buried under data-slates and enough chocolate bar wrappers to build a small fort, was Ronald. Ronald. Quiet, unassuming Ronald. The guy who always seemed to melt into the background, his contributions competent but unremarkable, his presence so unassuming that half the time, you forgot he was even in the room. He must have been there the whole time, working behind his equipment. That itself should not be the problem, but Ronald? He was with the Courts, while I followed behind the Imperial faction. Everyone knew it, even if no one spoke of it. We were oil and water, cats and dogs, pineapple on pizza versus not pineapple on pizza ¨C that level of fundamental disagreement had almost torn the world. Now, in the crimson gloom, the unspoken truce of the research center felt paper-thin now. Eyes flickered between us, calculating, wary. And Ronald¡¯s usually downcast eyes weren''t downcast now. They burned with a focused, chilling intensity in the pulsing red light. "Ronald? What are you talking about?" Isabel demanded, her voice tight with suspicion. He ignored her completely, his gaze locked onto mine. "The Empress doesn''t take idle actions, Tristan. Do you really don''t know what''s going on?" "Look," I started, raising my hands slowly, palms out, trying to project calm I absolutely didn''t feel. "Whatever is happening out there," I gestured vaguely towards the sealed door, "we''re all in the same desperate situation in here. We need to work together. Secure this lab, figure out¡ª" "SECURE THIS?!" Ronald''s voice exploded, a raw, furious roar utterly alien to the quiet man we knew. It bounced off the metal walls, painfully loud. His face twisted, the mild researcher vanishing, replaced by something cornered and feral. "Ronald! Control yourse¡ª" Isabel started off. He didn''t even look at her. With a savage kick, he sent a stack of research journals flying off a nearby console. Papers erupted into the air, fluttering down like wounded birds in the bloody light. "SECURE THIS?! EVEN IF WE DO, WHAT AWAITS ME OUT THERE IF THAT IMPERIAL BITCH SUCCEEDS? EXECUTION!" He wasn''t wrong. Faction takeovers weren''t tidy affairs, especially since the System Integration warped everything. Power shifts were brutal, and absolute. Then he moved. Not stumbling in anger, but with a sudden, shocking agility. He vaulted over the desk he''d cleared, landing lightly. "Ronald, stop this!" Silas screamed, scrambling away, anking Lyra with him towards the far wall. Ronald didn''t pause. He snatched up a thick, metal-bound datapad ¨C the kind used for hazardous environment readings, heavy as a brick. "Don''t interfere!" he snarled at the others. "A few valuable hostages like you lot, and the Imperial dogs will think twice about killing us!" The air crackled. Panic, sharp and acidic, surged in my throat. He meant it. The months of quiet observation, the shared coffee breaks, the collaborative problem-solving ¨C all gone. This was raw affiliation, stripped bare. Chapter 2 : System Patched~ Right, okay, ow. Turns out spending years shuffling papers instead of cracking skulls makes you a little rusty. Like, leave-it-out-in-the-rain-for-a-decade rusty. Seriously? All those brutal training sessions, all that spilled blood, and my brain picks now to forget which end of the fist goes forward? Fantastic. But as Ronald swung the datapad, something deeper, older, surged through me. Something buried deep under all the research notes and lab protocols. Something that I had buried. Call it instinct. Call it muscle memory honed in brutal training yards and desperate skirmishes I thought I''d left behind. [ [ D ] Astral Perception ] Suddenly, the world went sharp. Like switching from grainy VHS to 4K Ultra HD. The flashing red emergency lights stopped being annoying rave strobes and became... useful? Huh. Didn''t see that coming. This old skill I swore I wouldn''t touch again... guess promises are made to be broken when someone''s trying to rearrange your face. [ [ D ] Phantom Surge ] Agility +1000! A faint shimmer of mana flared inside my body and enveloped my legs for a fraction of a second. It wasn''t much, just a tiny burst of extra agility. The big, fancy active wards hummed, probably trying to figure out what that little blip was, but gave up pretty quickly. See, that''s the flaw in these wide-area formations ¨C they''re great at stopping ambient mana, but the mana inside body could be easily used. Even the fancy military-grade ones. Suckers. It was just enough juice. I twisted, throwing myself sideways in a roll that was probably way less graceful than I imagined. The heavy datapad crunched into the floor right where my skull had been milliseconds before, cracking the tile like an egg. Ronald grunted in frustration, recovering quickly. He kicked out, aiming for my ribs. I scrambled backward on hands and feet, crab-walking through the debris, loose papers sticking to my palms. My hand brushed against something solid ¨C a thick book on Blood Hexes. Heavy. Good weight. Thump-thump material. He lunged again, relentless, moving low and fast. One hand clawed for my throat, the other balled into a fist driving towards my gut. No finesse, just brute force fueled by desperation. I swung the book in a wide, desperate arc. He deflected it easily with his forearm, the impact jarring my wrist. He was faster, stronger, clearly keeping his skills sharp while mine had dulled. He grabbed the front of my lab coat, hauling me towards him. His fist drew back. Close quarters. Too close. No room to maneuver. Trapped between him and a sturdy metal workbench littered with clamps and wires. His knuckles were white. His breath hissed between clenched teeth. Think! Use the environment! My eyes darted ¨C vials (too fragile), loose cables (too thin), a discarded chocolate tube (useless). Panic clawed at my throat. No easy outs. It had to be raw power. [ [ D ] Phantom Surge ] Strength +1000! [ [ D ] Phantom Surge ] Strength +1000! [ [ D ] Phantom Surge ] Strength +1000! Skill Limits Reached! Skill Cooldown: 9 Minutes 59 Seconds A wave of heat flooded my right arm, tingling, tightening the muscles, like static electricity building to an explosive discharge. Power crested, a humming pressure beneath my skin, straining at some unseen limit. As Ronald''s fist shot towards my face, I didn''t block. Instead, I lunged forward, inside his guard, using my enhanced grip to seize the wrist of his attacking arm. His eyes widened, shock warring with fury at the impossible strength halting his blow mid-strike. I didn''t give him time to process. Using his own forward momentum, I twisted hard, leveraging his weight against his joint. Simultaneously, my free hand slammed flat against his chest, shoving him backward, off balance. He stumbled, his captured arm wrenched at a brutal angle. He roared, a strangled sound of pain and rage, trying to rip his arm free, but the surge-enhanced grip held like forged steel. With a grunt, I slammed his captured hand ¨C wrist-first ¨C down hard onto the unforgiving metal edge of the workbench. CRACK! The sound was sickeningly loud in the enclosed space, followed immediately by his high-pitched scream of agony. He instinctively recoiled, clutching the mangled wrist, his attack forgotten in a wave of blinding pain. That was the moment. The surge was already fading, the intense tingling receding from my arm, but the opening was there. Before he could recover, before the pain fully translated back into coherent rage, I moved. I hooked my leg behind his, dropped my weight, and drove my shoulder into his chest. We crashed to the floor together amidst the scattered debris, me landing on top. His head hit the ground with a dull thud. He thrashed beneath me, trying to throw me off, his good hand clawing at my face. But the fight was draining out of him, the shock and pain taking their toll. I pinned his arms with my knees, my heart pounding like a drum against my ribs. My hand, still tingling slightly from the [ Phantom Surge ], clamped around his throat. Not hard enough to crush, just enough to restrict air, to assert dominance. Control. "Yield," I gasped, my voice ragged. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a tremor in my hands. He struggled for another moment, his eyes wild in the red light, then went limp, his body shuddering. Just as the tension began to ebb, a new sound joined the klaxon''s wail. Hisss¡­ We all looked up as white gas began to spill from the ceiling vents, swirling like frost-kissed mist under the red lights. It was almost pretty. Almost. ¡°That¡¯s¡ª¡± Silas started. ¡°Containment gas,¡± Isabel and I said in unison. I yanked my coat up over my mouth, but it was too late. The sweetness hit my tongue. A slow, syrupy warmth crept down my throat. And then the scent registered. Thick. Sticky. That metallic tang under the wave of artificial mint. My muscles knew it before my conscious mind caught up. They locked, spasming. [ [ S ] Dreamveil ] My legs turned to jelly. Isabel slammed back against the glowing terminal nearby, her body convulsing. Her fingers scrabbled uselessly at the runes etched there, smearing the light, breaking the sequence. A last, futile act of defiance. They only use this on monsters, The world tilted sideways. I never thought it¡¯d be used on me. I should be safe. I¡¯m on the Empress¡¯s side¡­ ¡­Aren¡¯t I? Then the darkness consumed me.
The next time I opened my eyes, bam, here I was. Dead. In a void so complete it made the concept of light feel like a childish joke. Dead. When my side, my Empress, was supposedly in control. Did she sign off on this? The thought landed like a lead weight in my stomach, cold and sharp. Betrayal? Or did we just lose? Was this the enemy''s cleanup crew? Was I executed by the Courts? Honestly, I wasn''t sure which option was worse. Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit. Problem for Future Me. I mentally tagged it, filed it under ''Existential Crises To Be Screamed About Later,'' and shoved it to the back of the queue in my head. Priorities. I let the system display flicker back into view. Might as well see if the cosmic snail had moved. ?PROGRESS: [==========>-] 97.56%? That was fast. Did the system speed up? Whatever the reason, things were apparently nearing¡­ completion? The thought sent a jolt, not quite relief, more like bracing for the next unknown absurdity. Banishing the display back, I narrowed my eyes ¨C or the soul-equivalent thereof ¨C trying to pierce the gloom. The other¡­ people¡­ were definitely there ¡ª their presence prickled at the edge of my senses ¡ª but every time I tried to focus on one, my perception scattered like smoke in a breeze. Ethereal and indistinct. Hazy. My mind started cycling through the usual panic options: Escape? (From what, exactly? And how?) Fight? (Again, what? And with what?) Play dead? (Bit redundant now, wasn''t it?) Maybe this was it? The clich¨¦ afterlife recruitment drive? You die, get a cool system message, and boom ¨C you''re the chosen one, destined to fight interdimensional space weasels or something equally glamorous. Then it appeared. Or rather, changed. The previous display vanished, replaced by stark, blocky text. SYSTEM INTEGRATION PATCH v.1011.DDefsd427 SUCCESSFUL AUTHORITY ACCESSED Before I could even process that, a surge went through me. Not physical, not magical, but something deeper. A sense of¡­ solidity? Power? Like my very soul had just been plugged into a cosmic charger, lifting me head and shoulders above the listless static of the crowd around me. It felt good. Dangerously good. SYSTEM STATS: UNAVAILABLE SYSTEM SKILLS: UNAVAILABLE SYSTEM SHOP: INACCESSIBLE Great. Patched, powered up, and still locked out of half the features. Typical. Then the familiar blue interface settled back in, displaying my current, rather grim, status: Name: Tristan Von Astar ( DEAD ) Level: 14692 Race: [ D ] Human Authority: 1572 Abnormal Status: Equipments: For a solid second, my thoughts just¡­ stopped, frozen in the face of the glaring truth. The word DEAD blazed like a torch in my vision. Dead...? I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly tight. It wasn¡¯t like I hadn¡¯t guessed¡ªthat gnawing sense of something fundamentally wrong had been clawing at me since I''d opened my eyes. This¡­ wrongness. An absence where life should be. But to see it spelled out in stark, emotionless words shook me to my core. My breath hitched, the chill of panic creeping into my bones. No. Wait. My fists clenched ¨C a purely symbolic gesture, but satisfying. I forced my gaze down, past the glaring indictment of my current state. The system''s still working. That''s¡­ something. Right? My mind desperately clung to the details, searching for a loophole, a glitch in the matrix of death. Ineffective... Suspended Dead (Ineffective). Okay, that was interesting. Whatever soul-freeze was supposed to be happening to me clearly wasn''t taking. Explains why I''m lucid and everyone else seems to be running on afterlife autopilot. Why I was having this internal meltdown while they were all just¡­ standing there. My eyes landed on the mysterious equipment: [ X ] Soul Aegis (Fragmented: 1 / 100 ). Soul Aegis? Never heard of it. Definitely didn''t remember picking that up. X Grade Equipment. The highest I had touched was the A Grade Awakening Artifact in the family. That too just for a second. The fragmented state suggested it was incomplete, barely functioning. Yet somehow, it was keeping me tethered, grounded in my thoughts while others¡­ drifted. When did I get this? Why don''t I remember it? Where is it now? Is it even a physical thing? The questions piled up, bouncing around the inside of my skull with nowhere to go. The answers weren¡¯t on the screen. Only those cold blue lines, uncaring and distant, blinked back at me. I let out a dry, humorless chuckle. The sound felt alien in my throat, like someone else''s voice. I dragged a hand down my face, fingers trembling slightly as my nerves threatened to unravel. Pull it together, Astar. I forced myself to steady my breathing, squared my shoulders, and exhaled slowly. Or at least I followed the motions. Time to get on track. First thing''s first: Death. Turns out it¡¯s a thing. I¡¯d never been the religious type ¡ª hard to stay faithful when an apocalypse and a System Integration drop on you and throw the old rules out the window. I mean, talk about a divine retcon. But I always assumed there¡¯d be something after death. A reward, a punishment, maybe just a really long nap. Or maybe the reincarnation. Well, there was something all right. Shame it involved waiting in lines. No grand welcome. No celestial chorus. No judgmental jury. Not even a cheesy orientation video. Just a whole lot of standing around and waiting ¡ª the afterlife equivalent of being stuck in a DMV line. Seriously, where was the customer service? I had no clue where we were going, why we were going, or why no one had the decency to provide some basic instructions. A sign, a pamphlet, anything would''ve been an improvement over this cosmic queue. Then I looked down. Oh. No. No, no, no, no, NO. Pure, ice-cold panic slammed into me. My hands flew across my body, trying to cover¡­ well, everything. I was naked. Birthday suit. Buck-ass naked. Au naturel. In the void. A chill that had absolutely nothing to do with the surrounding void swept over me. I snapped my head around, trying to focus on the blurry figures standing in the line ¡ª or, you know, trying to. My eyes darted, searching, praying for some kind of¡­ reprieve. The fact that everyone else was indistinct and blurry was suddenly the single greatest blessing the cosmos had ever bestowed upon me. Thank whatever cruel gods were out there that my vision couldn¡¯t focus properly, hopefully, it worked both ways. But standing buck-naked among this many¡­ beings was unsettling on a level that defied rational explanation. It was a special kind of mortification. A hundred times worse than that one time I got roped into that secret club event¡­ Yeah, let¡¯s not think about that. Instinct took over. I reached for my [ [ E ] Storage Ring ]. Habit. My hand grasped at empty air where the familiar cool metal should have been. It hovered, useless, before dropping. Right. Dead. No physical form. No convenient dimensional storage for spare clothes. Grimacing, I tried the next best thing: mana. Reached inward for that familiar thrumming energy, the power that had always been there, coiled beneath my skin, ready to be unleashed. Nothing. Gone. Vanished. Just a hollow ache remained, like a phantom limb where my mana used to be. Damn it! Of course! And then the ridiculously obvious hit me. Like a cartoon anvil. Soul. Only my soul is here. No body, no mana pools tied to the physical form. Duh. Took me long enough Okay, new plan. Forget mana. Focus inward. Deeper. Beyond the physical memory, into the core of my being. The soul itself. This felt vaguely like accessing my Soul Realm ¨C that personal dimension thingy that was supposed to grow when you upgraded to a D-grade race. Except this was harder. Like trying move through ten feet of quicksand. Come on, come on¡­ You useless little s#!^... Work with me. Pressure built behind my eyes, a dull throb threatening to turn into a full-blown migraine. My chest tightened, constricting, as if an invisible hand was squeezing the very essence of me. Then, snap. Like a cork finally popping from a bottle that had been shaken way too hard. The pressure vanished. And clothes appeared. Simple white tunic, plain black pants. Basic, functional, and, most importantly, not see-through. I''d take it. Minimalist afterlife chic. Better than maximum afterlife exposure. Authority: 1552 ( 1572 ) That was not what I expected. The system screen that announced that only 1552 [ Authority ] was available to me. [ Authority ] was the measure of your power, your influence, your very right to exist. The higher your it is, the greater your potential, and the more you can achieve. Using 20 of it on basic decency felt¡­ wasteful. But glancing at the potentially naked spectral horde shuffling around me? Worth it. Dignity ain''t free in the great beyond, apparently. I took a few moments (minutes? hours? time is weird here) to just... exist. Recover from the exertion and the existential wardrobe malfunction. Then, I attempted to strike up a conversation, while fully focusing on the face. "Hey," No response. Their features swam into slightly better focus ¨C I could almost make out hair color, the shape of a jawline ¨C but the details felt slippery, like trying to remember a dream seconds after waking up. Unfocused. Hazy. Waved a hand right in front of their face. Snapped my fingers a few times. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Like talking to a particularly unresponsive shop mannequin. Okay, maybe that one was just shy. Moved to the next one. Repeated the process. Focused hard on face. Tried a "Yo!" Same result. They weren''t ignoring me; they were... absent. Vacant. Eyes glassy (or the soul-equivalent), faces slack. Like the lights were on, but absolutely nobody was home. Hollowed-out shells just... standing there, shuffling on command. Is this what ''Suspended Dead'' is supposed to look like? Is this what the Soul Aegis fragment is saving me from? Being a mindless zombie in the eternal queue? Creepy didn''t even begin to cover it. And I had a feeling the weirdness was just getting started. Chapter 3 : Forced Conscription~ I sighed, running a hand through my hair. Or, well, the vague approximation of hair my soul-self had conjured. I stopped my mind from spiraling down the how-did-I-die rabbit hole. No good could come of that now. What was the point of surviving an apocalypse, System Integration, and god knows how many near-death experiences, only to end up here? This¡­ this holding pen for souls? Instead, I focused on what was here. On me. Souls. That was my area of research. My expertise, back when I had a corporeal form and a lab that wasn''t a featureless void. I turned my hand over, flexing my fingers. But whatever this was, it was¡­ more. Closing and opening my hands, I felt the movement, the reaction. It was¡­ faster. Quicker than my physical body I''d inhabited. Lighter. More responsive. Then I looked around at the endless expanse of nothingness. What''s at the end? Hell? Reincarnation? Oblivion? Take your pick, really. That''s what''s been lurking in the back of my mind, I realized. The only afterlife options I could see. All three spectacularly unfavorable. No point standing around like an idiot, I started walking, pushing through the sluggish mass of¡­ people? Souls? Whatever they were. I collided with someone. Then someone else. And someone else. Each impact a jarring reminder of their insubstantiality, their vacant presence. After the seventh collision, I''d had enough. Time to see what this soul can do. I marshaled my will, drawing on the soul strength I knew was there, somewhere. Except it wasn''t "somewhere" anymore. It was here. It was me. This power¡­it was fundamentally different. When I''d accessed my Soul Realm before, it was always¡­ ethereal. Hazy. Like reaching for a half-remembered dream. This was¡­ substantial. Like gravity itself, a heavy, undeniable presence at my core. The mental pressure surged, sharp and heavy, but it wasn''t just in my head. It resonated through my entire being, as if my very essence was solidifying. I leaned into it, embracing the unfamiliar power. The pain made it feel all the more real. My feet lifted off the ground, and it wasn''t like floating. It was soaring. My body surged through the void, cutting through the stagnant air, and there was resistance, a force against me, like cutting through a heavy fog. An impossibility pressing down, telling me I couldn''t. Shouldn''t. But I grit my mental teeth, and surged through it. If my understanding of the Soul Realm was anything to go by, then this was possible. I had to believe it was. Even if I wasn''t sure. With a burst of focused thought, the resistance tore and I was suspended, a few feet above everyone else. Authority: 1502 ( 1572 ) Freedom at last. At the cost of 50 hundred of my Authority. By this time it was easy to understand that [ Authority ] was the major active force here. I suddenly realized that here, there was no body, no mind, no soul. Just¡­ this. My entire existence, my awareness, was focused here, in this form, this now. Instead, my consciousness was a single, unified entity, which was both terrifying and exhilarating. That was based on my [ Authority ] The buzz wore off pretty quick, leaving me a bit dizzy. I blinked, trying to get my bearings again. Below, no one turned their heads, no one even seemed to notice. The line of hazy figures shuffled onward, and the space I''d vacated was instantly filled by the person behind me. Like I''d never been there at all. After a glance, I noticed that the edge of the crowd was now closer to my left side. Finally. Then I turned and rushed past the masses. Mental pressure clawed at my mind, heavy and unnatural, but I pushed through it, focusing on the goal, the edge. A surge of will carried me toward it ¡ª and then, as I reached it, another force clashed with my soul. It was like hitting a brick wall made of¡­ not-there. What the hell? Authority: 1552 ( 1572 ) My body spun around, and I crashed beyond the masses of people and watched the scene beyond ¡ª chaos. A war. On one side, a group of plated legionaries stood in formation, guarding the buck-naked, dazed people. A few of them handed out swords and armor that materialized out of thin air. While those newly equipped people, jerked and then moved as if controlled or commanded, their motion becoming smooth by the time they reached the fight. Further ahead, hazy figures clashed in a maelstrom of light and darkness. Energy crackled, and the air shimmered with¡­ something. I squinted, catching flashes of scaled limbs ¡ª a dragon? No, multiple dragons. And was that a snake? A colossal serpent, its scales shimmering like a thousand sunsets, locked in combat with¡­ something that looked vaguely humanoid but radiated power like a miniature sun. And legionaries. Lots and lots of legionaries. With shields and swords. An endless stream of them running through that meat grinder. Screams and war cries blurred together, a symphony of destruction. A hand clapped me on the back. ¡°Take your sword, legionary.¡± I stumbled forward as a sword was shoved into my hands. Legionary? What''s that? I blinked down at the weapon. The blade was longer than my arm, silver polished to a dull sheen. Black-edged, double-bladed. Elegant, deadly. No embellishments, no runes except for that ominous black edge, but the weight was perfect in my hands ¡ª balanced, sharp. My fingers curled around the golden hilt, feeling the rough brown leather grip bite into my palm. It felt¡­ familiar. Like an extension of myself. What the hell am I supposed to do with this? Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. I glanced at the soldier who had given it to me ¡ª but the man¡¯s face was nothing more than a shadowed blur. Welcome to the [ Fifth Expedition War: Netherworld ]! Name: Tristan Von Astar (Alive) Abnormal Status: Oh, you¡¯ve got to be kidding me¡ª ¡°Hey, I don¡¯t want to be in whatever this is?¡± I said, shoving the sword back towards him. The soldier''s face focused, sharpened. Gone was the blur, and I found myself looking at the face of a... Mars incarnate. Bronze helmet, a stern jaw, and eyes that seemed to hold the weight of centuries. Not a Roman per se, but definitely giving off that vibe. Like those Spartans in the movies before System Integration disrupted the whole industry. [ [ D ] Roman Legionary Lvl. 11282 ] Definitely a Roman. And a legionary. He gave me a confused look, brow furrowed, as he stared at my offered sword. He didn''t take it. ¡°Don¡¯t you understand?¡± I said, moving the sword closer. ¡°I¡¯m not a soldier¡­ or legionary.¡± His hand moved. Not for the sword. Down. To the hilt of his own weapon. A gladius, short and brutally efficient. The corner of his lip curled in a way that wasn¡¯t a smile. ¡°You¡¯re with them?¡± ¡°Wait, wait! No, hold on a minute.¡± I took a step back, hands raised, palms out. ¡°There¡¯s no enemy here. Or at least, I¡¯m not your enemy.¡± Too late. He drew his sword. The blade sang as it left its scabbard, the sound echoing in the strange, still air. "You''re either a legionary or you''re with them." A few heads turned in our direction, the blurry figures suddenly¡­ sharper. Interested. A ripple of¡­ anticipation? went through the crowd. Great, a freaking audience. My fingers tightened around the sword hilt. Crap. The legionary lunged, his gladius a silver streak. I barely had time to register the movement before my own blade met his, not with the expected clang, but with a jarring shudder that ran up my arm and into my very core. It wasn''t the impact of steel on steel. It was like¡­ like my existence was being challenged. Diminished. The world swam for a moment, and a wave of nausea, of pure wrongness, washed over me. Then, instinct took over. Not the careful, considered movements of a scholar or a mage, but something raw and visceral. Something¡­ ancient. My body moved. I slashed. The gladius met my blade again, and that sickening feeling returned, but I pushed through it, fueled by a sudden, desperate surge of adrenaline. Right. Thrust. Step back. There was no cluttered surrounding, only an open fight in the void. He was good. Damn good. This wasn¡¯t some clumsy brawl; it was a dance of death, precise and economical. I was on the defensive, my movements reactive, my mind struggling to keep up with the onslaught. A thrust aimed for my¡­ my soul, I guess? I dodged, the tip of the gladius slicing through the barest edge of my awareness. It felt like a razor had just been dragged across my very being. Thrust. Dodge. Kick. My researcher training, my carefully honed skills, were built over a layer of pure, unadulterated battle instinct. An instinct that whispered of blood and survival, of a time before the system, before¡­ me. Before I lost her. My eyes narrowed, focusing my mind. Soul body combat? This felt nothing like the controlled exchanges of mana and force I was used to. I''d fought before ¡ª but not like this. I pivoted, sidestepped another swing. Blade up. Slash. The edge of my sword bit deep into the soldier¡¯s arm. A dark ichor welled out, and he staggered back, his form flickering. Fighting with a soul body is¡­ different. Smooth. Instantaneous. I didn''t wait for him to regain his balance. This wasn''t some sparring match. It was a fight for survival. I feinted high, then, as his guard shifted back, I dropped low and pivoted, twisting my torso to the side. My sword, instead of continuing its arc, changed direction mid-swing, thrusting out from my side. The black edge of the blade slid between his ribs, piercing his heart. Or whatever passed for a heart here. A jolt, like plunging my hand into ice water, ran up my arm. His eyes widened in disbelief, then dimmed as his form dissolved into motes of light. A [ [ D ] Roman Legionary Lvl. 11282 ] has been obliterated! Huh. So they do die here. Authority +117 What!? That was the cheapest Authority I had ever gained. 117? From one kill? Usually, it''s a trickle, barely double digits even for tough ones. 117. That''s more than I got clearing the entire [ [ E ] Goblin Dungeon ] last week. What was his level? Over eleven thousand... maybe the scaling is exponential? Or was there something else? Something about him? It felt... too easy. Like a trap, or a glitch. Is this place breaking? Or am I just getting that much stronger? I watched the light motes coalescing, swirling like dust motes in a sunbeam. What¡­ what is that? I reached out, letting my hand brush against a stray mote. It flared for a moment, and a fragmented consciousness flooded my mind: a cacophony of dying sensations and disjointed memories. Pain. Betrayal. A desperate lunge. The clang of metal. Orders barked in a harsh, unfamiliar tongue. A glimpse of a burning city. Fear. Then¡­ nothing. For a long time there was nothing but the similar void. The memories flooded my mind, playing out like a disjointed movie. I saw myself, or rather, the soul whose essence clung to those motes, adrift in that endless void, a sea of lost faces swirling around me. Then there were fragments of crossing through a river. A shore appeared, a desolate land where others had washed up, equally lost and confused, wandering lands without end. A fight broke out - a chaotic mess of limbs and desperation. For what? I couldn''t grasp. Or it felt more like that the memory was erased. Then, flashes of other battles, against different groups, different weapons. Each encounter a desperate struggle. Then he found a similar man. A fellow legionary. They huddled together and slowly, small groups formed, then tribes, clinging together for survival. Then, the Centurion came. A strong hand on my shoulder, a voice promising safety and citizenship in exchange for service. Join the New Rome. Under his rule, we became proper legionaries of the New Rome, fighting endless wars against other tribes, other nations, for¡­ for what? The memories offered no answer, just the endless cycle of violence. Then, the drums. A deep, guttural rhythm that resonated not in the ears, but in the very core of his being. A call to arms, a summons to a final battle. The memories fractured: a blinding flash of light, the screech of steel, and then¡­ this sword, appearing in my hand, and another faceless Centurion barking orders to arm the others. The scene dissolved into the recent fight, until finally, blackness. The memories weren''t mine, but the emotions¡­ they lingered. Raw and visceral. It was like being stabbed in the soul. I recoiled, severing the connection. My head throbbed. Even with the information that felt like a soul attack. Oh. They don''t die. They¡­ unravel. Dissolve. Become nothing. Oblivion. Too much. Way too much. I wasn''t sure I could absorb that much¡­ experience without losing myself in the process. Was there a time limit? Was I leaching his very essence? And the feeling of Oblivion? His whole body shuddered recalling that last memory. The pounding in my skull subsided, the echoes of the memories fading into a dull throb. I blinked, my eyes focusing as if for the first time on my surroundings. The swirling motes of light were gone. Vanished. A cold dread washed over me. Had I absorbed them all? Then, a flash of gold caught my eye. A figure was running along the edge of the battlefield, heading straight for me. The remaining motes of light were converging on him, at least half the size from before, drawn to him like iron filings to a magnet. Not absorbed, then. Just¡­ collected. A Centurion. The memories of the dead legionary supplied. An officer rank. He wore the ornate breatplate of a roman centurion, complete with a crested helmet and a shield strapped to his back. Bearing carved into the resolute impassive state that battle hardened people have. And his face¡­ his expression was a mask of fury. Eyes narrowed, jaw clenched, the lines on his face etched deep. Uh oh.