Chapter 17: A Servant Born from Shadows

Luke approached the coffin slowly, walking in absolute silence. The air around him was dense and unmoving, as if time itself had frozen within that room. Each step landed with a muffled thud against the cold stone floor, and yet even that seemed too loud in the stillness. His fists clenched every time he made the slightest sound.

At first glance, the coffin looked ordinary—old wood, darkened with age and moisture. But as he circled it, Luke noticed something odd: the side facing the hallway wasn’t the front. He moved carefully, tracing the details. The air smelled beyond just rot and mold—there was a faint metallic tang, the scent of old blood. When he reached the front, he found a small crack in the wood. A fracture, like something had slammed into it from the inside—over and over again.

Then: BAM! The sharp sound made Luke flinch, kukris rising instinctively into his grip.

Inside the coffin, caught in the flickering light, he saw it.

“A skeleton?”

It lay pressed against the inner lid, unmoving—except for its head.

BAM.

It knocked the back of its skull against the wood in steady rhythm. Not violent. Not frantic. Just… repeated.

Luke frowned. The noise wasn’t aggressive. There was no rage behind it. No intent to break free. Just repetition.

BAM. BAM.

The skeleton turned its head slowly, and for a fleeting moment, its hollow sockets locked with Luke’s eyes. The void inside them was unsettling. Then it turned back—and resumed the motion. The rhythm was slower now. Softer. Like a memory echoing inside its bones.

It didn’t want to escape. It didn’t want to fight. It looked…

“Tired,” Luke muttered aloud before he realized he was speaking.

And right then, the skeleton stopped. Motionless. As if… it understood. As if the word had struck a chord.

Seconds passed.

Then, with a slow, almost defeated motion, the creature resumed the soft thud against the lid—gentler this time. Melancholic.

Luke just stood there, watching. There was nothing mindless about this. It wasn’t just eerie. It was familiar. He’d seen it in the living—not in monsters.

It was…

“Loneliness,” he whispered.

The moment the word escaped his lips, the skeleton froze again. This time for longer. No twitch. No movement. Only silence.

Then, as if something had clicked deep inside it, it returned to the rhythm. But it wasn’t the same. Now the sound wasn’t just habit. It felt like grief.

Luke narrowed his eyes. Everything about this was insane—absurd—but there was something painfully human in it.

That’s when he noticed it. Near the side of the coffin, partially obscured by dried blood, a word scratched into the wood. The system translated it for him: Traitor.

Luke leaned closer, whispering as he read, “So they locked you in here…”

He stepped back, drawing one of the kukris. The black blade gleamed under the dim torchlight. He didn’t know what he was going to do. But something pulled him forward—maybe instinct, maybe the blood in his veins, or maybe just the unshakable need to understand what this was.

He brought the tip of the kukri to the skeleton’s skull.

The reaction was immediate.

The skeleton jerked away with a sharp, cracking motion—pure panic driving the movement. Its bones slammed against the sides of the coffin, thrashing violently like someone waking up from a nightmare. It was trapped. Fully restrained inside that structure. But the terror was unmistakable.

Whatever this thing was—dead or not—it was afraid.

Luke hesitated, then followed through. He pressed the blade into the bone.

The sound was soft but crisp. A dry snap as steel punctured skull. The skeleton let out a howl.

“GRRRRR!”

A guttural cry, more fear and pain than threat. The head shook, bones rattling, trying to bite the air, trying to escape a prison that wouldn’t let go.

Luke’s breathing quickened. That reaction… it was too real. Too alive.

Still, he didn’t step back.

“I just want to test something,” he muttered.

He stared down the creature, ignoring its growling tremors. Then, with a swift motion, Luke dragged the kukri across his own palm. The blade slid through skin like it belonged there.

Blood welled instantly—warm, vibrant, a drop of power condensed into liquid form.

“Now you’ll serve me,” he said, pressing the bleeding hand against the skeleton’s skull.

Mana surged.

It wasn’t gradual. It burst like a flood through a cracked dam, rushing through his arm in pulses—thick, primal, alive.

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The connection was made in that moment. Something ancient. Something not entirely his… but now part of him.

A notification flared into view.

[Convert Cursed Skeleton into a Servant of the Dark Lord?]

Luke’s eyes widened.

“It worked…” he breathed.

The ability was real. He could actually turn monsters into followers.

“Yes,” he answered at once, barely containing his excitement.

The change began immediately. The air vibrated. The shadows moved—slithering along the floor, drawn toward the coffin as if obeying an unspoken command.

[Cursed Skeleton is being converted into a Servant of the Dark Lord…]

For it to work, he actually had to deal damage to the creature — enough to defeat it, but not kill it.

“Like some damn wild Pokémon…”

[You have used your ONLY Servant Slot to convert a Cursed Skeleton!]

“What?! Only one?!”

Luke staggered back as the skeleton’s body convulsed. Its skull blasted free, bouncing off the wall and hitting the floor with a hollow clunk. Then, bones began ejecting from the coffin—one after another—faster than anything should move. It was like invisible hands were tearing the corpse apart.

He took another step back.

The bones floated in midair for a moment, then began assembling. Each one clicked into place with surgical precision: ribcage, spine, arms, legs. It wasn’t random. It wasn’t chaotic. It was a ritual. Something sacred to the blood now running in Luke’s veins.

A servant… was being born.