Seven Sins System Chapter 841. A Depressed Necromancer I
Seven Sins System Chapter 841. A Depressed Necromancer I
The doors opened inward with a groan, and more undead puppets entered the room. These were cleaner than the dining ones. Servant uniforms. Hollow faces. Black threads stitched along their wrists and necks. Their eyes glowed faint gray.
They didn’t attack.
They approached us.
Luci’s jaw twitched.
I could feel his disgust from three feet away.
One puppet reached for his sleeve.
He grimaced so hard the sheet mask wrinkled.
Under his breath, barely audible, he cursed in a language older than royalty.
Another puppet grabbed my arm.
Cold fingers.
Dry.
Light.
I let it.
My entire Wrath instinct screamed to rip its hand off and beat the room with it, but no. We needed to see where they took controlled victims. We needed the deeper chamber. The core. The thing receiving the recycled power.
So I played puppet.
Badly maybe, but I tried.
The undead led us out of the dining room and deeper into the mansion.
Hallways stretched longer than the outside structure should allow. The walls warped subtly as we moved, portraits shifting, doors appearing where there had been none, floorboards bending under our steps like we were walking across a sleeping beast’s ribs.
[Interior Distortion Confirmed]
[Spatial Layout: Non-Euclidean Expansion]
[Source: Necromantic Anchor Below Ground Level]
The undead guided us down a narrow hall toward a staircase hidden behind a false wall. It spiraled downward into darkness, the stench growing stronger with every step.
Luci’s voice slipped into my head through a narrow infernal thread. ‘If this stains my shoes, I am ending the mission.’
I replied the same way. ‘If you complain one more time, I’m telling everyone you wore a sheet mask into battle.’
Silence.
‘You wouldn’t.’
‘Try me.’
He shut up.
We descended.
The mansion above creaked softly behind us, doors closing one by one, as if sealing our path.
Good.
Let it think it had us.
Because the deeper they dragged us, the closer we got to the throat.
And I was very good at tearing throats open.
The stairs kept going down.
Not in the normal way.
A mansion basement should have one floor. Maybe two if the owner had money, secrets, or both. But this staircase twisted deeper than the house should allow, spiraling through old stone walls that sweated black moisture. The air got colder with every step, and the rotten stench grew thicker until even I started questioning whether breathing was worth the commitment.
Luci, beside me, remained stiff as a noble statue.
A noble statue wearing a damp flower-scented sheet mask.
If we survived this without him finding out how ridiculous he looked, that would be my greatest tactical achievement in centuries.
The undead servants held our arms and guided us downward. Their fingers were cold and light, like dried branches wrapped in funeral gloves. They didn’t speak. They didn’t even breathe. Just walked, step after step, dragging us deeper into whatever miserable basement tragedy this mansion kept under its skirt.
Then the staircase ended.
A door opened.
And we arrived in…
I wasn’t sure.
A chamber?
A hall?
A crypt?
A wedding reception designed by a depressed necromancer?
I stared at it for a second and decided the most accurate term was corpses room.
Because there were corpses.
A lot of corpses.
Dozens lined the walls in chairs, on couches, slumped over tables, standing upright with strings tied to their wrists like mannequins waiting to be used. Some were old and dry. Some looked fresher. All wore vintage clothes. Formal suits, gowns, gloves, hats, pearls, polished shoes. The kind of outfits mortals wore when they wanted to look respectable while making terrible life decisions.
A party.
No.
A wedding party.
Tables stood across the chamber with rotted flowers arranged in glass vases. The white ribbons had turned yellow. Lace curtains hung against stone walls where no windows existed. A long aisle of dead petals led toward the far end of the chamber, where a raised platform had been built like an altar.
Okay.
So this necromancer had a theme.
Not a good theme.
But definitely a theme.
[Location: Subterranean Ritual Hall]
[Primary Function: Soul Containment / Puppet Preservation]
[Detected Bodies: 48]
[Detected Bound Souls: 23]
[Necromantic Energy Density: High]
[Residue Signature: Mixed]
Nice.
So at least we found some souls.
Not many. Maybe twenty or so. But enough to matter.
The trapped souls hovered weakly around the chamber like dim flames caught in invisible jars. Some looked older, dressed in outdated clothing, their faces hollow with endless crying. Some looked younger, wearing modern clothes like hoodies, jackets, sneakers and those ones looked less broken and more furious.
Anger was healthier than surrender.
A teenage boy’s soul beat both fists against an invisible wall near the corner, screaming silently.
An older woman knelt beside one of the corpses, hands pressed over her mouth as she sobbed without sound.
A man in a gray suit paced back and forth in a loop, stopping every few seconds to look at the exit like he had forgotten he already tried to leave a hundred times.
The servants dragged us forward, placing us among the standing puppets near the side of the chamber. I let my body remain slack. Eyes unfocused. Breathing slow. Perfectly obedient puppet behavior.
Mostly.
Luci’s performance was… not bad.
His posture remained too elegant for mind control, but maybe the necromancer liked high-quality puppets.
At the end of the chamber, on the raised altar, sat the bride.
And this time…
Not fake.
Not a corpse puppet.
Alive.
Barely, but alive.
She sat in a chair that looked more like a throne than wedding furniture. White dress. Long veil. Hands folded on her lap. Her skin was pale in an unnatural way, smooth and waxy, like her face had been dipped in formalin and preserved while her body forgot how to age properly. She was still young. Maybe early twenties. Maybe younger.
But her soul…
Her soul was attached.
Not free. Not trapped nearby. Attached.
A faint, translucent version of herself clung to her body like a prisoner chained to a sinking ship. Her soul sobbed silently, shoulders trembling, eyes tired beyond mortal exhaustion.