“This pce looks like a tomb,” Viktor said.

  “For it is a tomb, Sovereign of the Dungeon,” replied Khenemhotep.

  Viktor chuckled. “What for? It’s not like someone has died and needs to be buried here.”

  “You have appointed me to be the Custodian of this floor, tasked with shaping it to stand strong against those who would intrude. This is the purpose I have taken to heart. The tombs of old were furnished with devices of defense, to protect them from the hands that would profane the dead. Thus, I say to you, it is only fitting I do the same here.”

  Viktor could see his point. The interior of this building was a byrinth of long, narrow corridors, much like the maze on the first floor, but worse in every way. After all, the first floor was designed to be “friendly” to the adventurers, in appearance at least, with the ceiling lit by mana that only faded gradually as they ventured deeper. But here? There was only darkness. He wouldn’t be able to see a thing were it not for the torch Khenemhotep was holding. And to make matters worse, the passages here were sloped, turning any sort of combat into an absolute nightmare.

  “Moreover, living in this pce brings me comfort,” the Guardian continued. “For I am a priest of the Bearded God, and I have spent more time in tombs than in my own home.”

  With Khenemhotep by his side, Viktor walked down the dark corridor. True to his words, the undead priest moved with the ease of someone returning home, as though every block of stone in the wall, every speck of dust in the air, were the old friends he hadn’t seen in years. Eventually, the passage opened into a small room. There, the path split into two. One leading up, the other going down.

  “Which one takes us to the staircase to the third floor?”

  “The path that ascends, Sovereign of the Dungeon.”

  Viktor chuckled again. “Very counter-intuitive. I love it.”

  “If we take that path, we shall reach the Great Hallway, a lofty corridor, its walls angling inward. Beyond that lies the Chamber of the Dead, though here it serves as the arena of the second floor. And farther still, past that, is the dder to the third.”

  “And the passage that leads down?”

  “There is a chamber beneath, where I have pced the skeletons I gathered from the pit of disposal. They will be prepared there, and once that is done, they will be raised to serve as sentinels of this tomb.”

  “Interesting,” Viktor said. “Let’s have a look then.”

  “As you command, Sovereign of the Dungeon.”

  Khenemhotep raised the torch and began the descent. The corridor ahead was dark, long, and narrow, no different from the one they had just walked through. The deeper they went, the colder it grew. Anyone who had made it to this pce might easily forget that there was a burning desert right outside these stone walls.

  As they emerged into the chamber below, the flickering torchlight revealed rows of stone sbs, upon each of which y a skeleton. Most of them were complete. Of course, Viktor couldn’t say for certain whether any of the smaller bones were missing, but the major components seemed to be all there. The skulls were intact, the ribcages aligned, the spines straight, the pelvises centered, and the arms and legs pced at the sides.

  When his minions dumped the bodies of the dead adventurers into the disposal pit, they certainly didn’t do it with care. The corpses, once tossed in, y one on top of another, left to rot and colpse into tangled piles of bone. For Khenemhotep to reassemble them into orderly arrangements like this, it must have taken a great deal of effort. Furthermore, each set of bones not only appeared complete, but also looked... correct. The components matched each other perfectly, as if all the bones indeed belonged to a single individual, and not a patchwork pieced together from a dozen different bodies.

  Viktor walked up to a nearby skeleton. “These bones,” he asked. “Do they come from one person? And if so, how exactly did you put it back together?”

  “The soul and the body are not separate, but they are one and the same. Each shapes the other. The soul leaves its mark on the flesh, and that mark remains even after the soul has departed, like a reflection in the mirror, like an echo in the void. The bones of a man still sing the song they sang in life. Subtle, but not beyond hearing. And I listen for it. I y the bones side by side, and if they sing in harmony, then shall I know they were joined in life.”

  “I see,” Viktor said, tapping lightly on the crown of the skeleton’s skull. “So, what’s the song of this one? What does it tell you about who he used to be?”

  Khenemhotep stood motionless for a moment, his glowing eyes closing as he listened to something only he could hear. Then he spoke.

  “These are the bones of a woman, Sovereign of the Dungeon. A soul gentle and kind at heart. She was a young maiden, who chose the path of a healer, seeking only to ease the suffering of other people. She had a younger sister, whom she loved deeply. Their life was humble, but not without joy. But sorrow found her through her work, as healing brought little coin, and debt began to weigh heavily on her. The burden grew, and desperation drove her to dangerous choices. In the end, she met death in despair and great fear, her heart trembling as she pleaded for her life. Yet, even with her final breath, her thoughts were not for herself, but for the sister she left behind. Her sorrow was complete in that parting.”

  I think I know who this is, Viktor thought. He had forgotten her name, but she must be Rhea’s older sister, one of the first adventurers he lured to his dungeon.

  “A great sorrow,” Khenemhotep said. “She had a great affinity for the arcane. Had she been given the chance to grow, she might have become a mage of great renown. But as, her days were cut short, and her potential went unrealized.”

  Viktor wasn’t so sure about that. Even if she had stayed out of the dungeon and survived, her life likely wouldn’t have taken any grand turn. Her debts were a heavy chain around her neck, and no matter how hard she struggled, they would only drag her deeper and deeper. Barring a miracle, like being taken under the wing of a wealthy patron or influential organization, she was never going to be a great mage. Most likely, she would have spent the rest of her days as just another low-ranked adventurer.

  “If this skeleton has great affinity for magic,” he asked, “then can you raise it to become a powerful undead mage?”

  “It is not so simple, Sovereign of the Dungeon. These bones are not sentient. A shadow of memory lingers, but the soul has long since departed. When I raise them, they are but vessels, puppets without their own will. I can shape this one into a bearer of sorcery, and indeed, she is better suited for that than the others. Yet, in the end, she remains but a conduit, through which my power flows.”

  “That’s good enough for me,” Viktor said, looking around. “Is there anyone else here that stands out to you?”

  Khenemhotep turned and walked a few paces down the line, stopping beside a sb, upon which y one of the few incomplete skeletons.

  “These bones once belonged to a powerful sorceress. A prideful woman, who beguiled many by her charms and gained advantage by deceit. Yet, within her burned the heart of a mother, gentle and watchful over her child. The way she died remains a mystery to me, for her skull is still missing. I have spent a long time searching the pit for it, but it is nowhere to be found.”

  A sorceress, who was powerful, seductive, and headless? It wasn’t hard to guess who this was.

  “Forget about it,” Viktor said. “It’s ended up in Sebekton’s belly.”

  Khenemhotep shook his head. “A great sorrow.”

  I think I’ve seen enough, Viktor thought. He should leave the undead priest to his task, as there was no reason for him to bother more with the details. He had a dungeon to run, after all. He would wait until the dead rose, then put them to the test in combat.

  Just as he was about to say farewell to Khenemhotep and ask Celeste to teleport him out, however, a thought suddenly occurred to him.

  “High Priest,” he asked, “you said that the soul and the body are intertwined, and one affects the other, right? So what will happen if a soul inhabits a body that wasn’t originally its own?”

  “What you are asking about is called possession, Sovereign of the Dungeon. And it is a matter most complex. No two cases are the same, so there is no one answer. Most of the time, the body rejects the invading soul, trying to cast it out. Yet, if the soul is strong enough, and backed by powerful sorcery, it can take control, maniputing the body like a puppet. The same as I shall do with these bones.”

  Was it really the case? Was he controlling Quinn’s body like a puppeteer pulling the strings? No, he didn’t feel it that way. The body didn’t resist. It didn’t reject him. No, it felt as if it was his own, as if he had always existed in it.

  He gnced down at his hands, flexing his fingers, touching his skin. Those were Quinn’s hands, Quinn’s fingers, Quinn’s skin. But there was no alienness to it. No foreignness. It felt like he belonged here. He wasn’t maniputing this body by some magic. He was living in it. Breathing, moving, being.

  What if... what if he was actually a Quinn with the memories of a Viktor?

  No! That’s ridiculous!

  “High Priest,” he asked, “you said the body usually resists the soul. So what happens in the cases where it doesn’t?”

  “It is rare, but it does happen. Sometimes, the body and the soul are found to be in harmony, and they bond as if they always belonged to the same person.”

  “And the soul will be affected by the body?”

  “Verily.”

  “In other words,” Viktor asked, “you’re telling me that the soul will slowly forget itself and become someone else?”

  “It is possible, yet not in every case. As I have said, each needs to be judged according to its own nature. And more importantly, Sovereign of the Dungeon, it is not memory alone that makes a man who he is. For a man does not cease to be himself just because he forgets. Even you don’t remember the days of your infancy, yet you are still the same soul that once lived in that child.”

  Maybe you’re right, but I refuse to lose my memories as Viktor.

  “Tell me, High Priest,” he said with a low voice. “If there ever comes a day when the soul forgets who it really was, would it even realize it had changed?”

  “It would not. It would believe it had always been that way.”

  And in the dark, Viktor said nothing.