The cave was silent now, save for the soft crackle of torchfire and the distant, mournful wind whispering through stone corridors like the last breath of a forgotten god.
Freya stood frozen, her crimson eyes locked with the hollow sockets of the kneeling skeleton. The flames within them danced faintly—not just flickering from wind, but pulsing, ever so subtly, in sync with something deeper. Something alive.
For a moment, the world felt smaller, quieter. The weight of the past—the ancient dungeon, the ruined legacy of Hugo Grant, the failed resurrection—all faded into the background.
It was just her.
And him.
She didn't know how to explain it. There was no spell, no incantation, no whispered truth to define the feeling. It was just… there. A pull, like a thread spun between their souls, taut and trembling. Not binding in chains, but anchoring. Familiar, and yet wholly alien.
Freya reached out—not physically, but with something deeper, more primal. A curious, tentative tendril of thought.
And the skeleton responded.
Not with words, not even with movement, but with presence. A shimmer of awareness, soft and subtle, like waking from a long dream and realizing someone else is in the room. A pressure against her mind, not intrusive, but loyal. Waiting.
Her heart skipped a beat.
She stepped closer. The flames in his sockets flared, just barely. Not in threat, but recognition.
"...You're not just some leftover spell, are you?" she whispered. "You're still in there. Somewhere."
It didn't answer. It didn't need to. She felt it.
A quiet warmth bloomed in her chest—startling in its gentleness. In a place filled with cold stone, rotting corpses, and the echoes of madness, this tiny flicker of connection was the first thing that didn't feel dead.
She crouched down before the skeleton, their eyes level.
"I don't even know what you are now," she murmured. "Hell, you don't even have a name."
Her gaze lingered on the faint, flickering flame behind the bone—a stubborn ember that refused to die.
"But I'm here because of Hugo Grant," she said. "Nothing can change that."
A pause. The silence between them deepened, charged with something unspoken.
"What say you," she whispered, "if I returned the name Grant to you?"
For a moment, there was nothing. Just silence… and bones.
Then, the skeleton's head tilted—barely, almost imperceptibly—like a beast catching a forgotten scent. The flames in its hollow sockets flared, not with violence, but with clarity. Recognition.
A low rattle echoed from deep within its ribcage, like wind brushing through an ancient grave. Not speech. Not breath. But intent.
Freya's smile sharpened.
"There you are."
The skeleton did not bow, did not grovel. But he straightened his spine ever so slightly, his posture shifting—no longer just a soulless creature left kneeling in the dust, but something reawakening. Something bound.
The bond had been formed.
And for now… that was enough.
Freya slowly rose to her feet, her boots crunching against bits of shattered bone and splintered debris. For a long moment, she simply stood there, letting the silence settle around her.
It wasn't the silence of death anymore.
It was the silence of decision.
She looked down at the skeleton—no, its her skeleton now. The thing kneeling before her wasn't just some reanimated husk or failed summoning. It was someone. Maybe not Hugo Grant as he once was, but a flicker of that soul remained—stubborn, loyal, and bound.
Grant.
The name sat right on him.
Freya's gaze softened. The absurdity of it all should have made her laugh—thrown into a fantasy world, trapped in a child's body soaked in cursed blood, naming skeletons in a cave—but instead, she felt… calm. As if a puzzle piece had finally clicked into place.
Her old life was gone. The desk job. The expensive suits. The high-rise apartment. The midnight anime marathons and gaming binges. All of it—burnt away. Ashes. Buried.
This was her new life.
Here.
Now.
She turned from the summoning circle and glanced toward the cave's mouth. Cold air wafted in from the darkness beyond, heavy with the scent of rot and ancient dust. She could feel it—hostility waiting out there. Danger, vast and unknown.
But she wasn't afraid.
"I don't know what you remember," she said softly, "or how much of who you were is still in there."
She turned back to him.
"But I know one thing—we're the closest kin in this world now."
The flames in the skeleton's eye sockets flared—steady. Certain.
No hesitation. No doubt.
Freya smiled—not mocking or cruel, but fierce and warm, like a flame catching dry wood. She crouched and extended a hand, palm up.
"On your feet, Sir Grant."
The skeleton rose. Slowly. Purposefully. Not just a creature of bone and magic, but a knight answering a call.
His joints creaked as he stood tall, bones rattling softly. His sword—chipped but intact—clinked at his side. He gave a slight nod. Not a bow. A soldier's salute.
Freya's crimson eyes glinted.
"Good."
She turned again to the cave's entrance, torchlight flickering behind her, casting jagged shadows across the cold stone.
"If we're going to survive this world…" she said, her voice steady, "we do it together."
She cracked a grin.
"Now—let's figure out how we level up."
Once Freya had calmed her thoughts, she began testing the state of her new body.
After some experimenting, she discovered that while she now stood at just about 1.3 meters tall, her strength and speed were incredible. At the very least, they were ten times greater than in her previous life.
But the real surprise came when she summoned the Reaper's Scythe. The moment it appeared in her hands, Freya felt it with startling clarity—the scythe wasn't just a weapon. It was a part of her. A true extension of her body, forged from her own blood and bone.
When she gripped it with both hands, combat instincts surged through her. The techniques of Combat Art: Scythe Mastery flowed from her muscles like reflexes. A two-meter-long, blood-red reaper's scythe spun and cleaved through the air in her hands—deadly and precise, leaving a crimson blur.
"So this is a bonded weapon, huh?"
"It really does feel innate. The Reaper's Scythe is me, and I am the Reaper's Scythe. Gods, this thing is powerful."
"But how am I supposed to level up Scythe Mastery… or anything else for that matter?" she muttered. "There's no guide, no system prompts, nothing."
She frowned at the flickering status panel hovering faintly in her mind's eye.
"Is this it?"
"Just a bunch of numbers and labels? No skill tree, no training tips, no mysterious voice in my head telling me what to do?"
She let out a dry sigh. With a huff, Freya dismissed the panel and turned her focus back to something that actually made sense—her body. Skills were muscle now. Instinct. All she needed was practice.
"Grant, let's spar."
The skeletal knight responded without hesitation. Grant stepped forward, the rattle of his bones echoing softly in the stone chamber.
His chipped blade hissed as it slid from its sheath, old metal catching the dim torchlight. There was no menace in his movement—only discipline, as if sparring with her was part of an ancient oath being honored.
Freya grinned.
She lunged first.
The Reaper's Scythe swept in a wide arc, humming through the air with terrifying speed and accuracy.
Grant sidestepped smoothly, the motion fluid despite his skeletal frame. His sword came up in a parry, clashing against crimson scythe with a spark and a clang.
Freya staggered back slightly, more surprised by the impact than the block itself.
He's fast.
Without pause, she reversed her grip and went low, the scythe slicing across the stone floor in a vicious sweep meant to take his legs.
Grant leapt—actually leapt—clean over the scythe, twisting midair and bringing his blade down in a clean overhead strike.
Freya met it with the shaft of her weapon, bracing it horizontally as the force of the blow reverberated through her arms.
She shoved him back and used the momentum to spin. Her scythe whipped in a full circle, building speed before she struck again, this time angling for his exposed ribs.
Grant didn't dodge. He took the hit with his shield.
Shield cracked.
But he didn't stop.
He let go of the shield, caught the shaft of the scythe with his empty hand, and yanked it forward, dragging Freya closer—and then brought his forehead down in a brutal headbutt.
Skull met skull.
Freya reeled, vision flashing white for a second, then laughed.
"Ow—! You crazy bastard!"
She let go of the scythe, rolled with the momentum, and landed low in a crouch. Her fingers curled, and with a snap of her will, the Reaper's Scythe flew back into her grip—like a living thing that belonged to her and her alone.
Grant picked up his shield and readjusted his stance.
He tilted his head. Not a taunt. Not arrogance.
An invitation.
"All right, fine. Round two," Freya muttered, crimson eyes narrowing.
She charged.
This time she was faster, sharper. The dungeon echoed with the clatter of bone and the hiss of steel. Sparks flew. Stone cracked. The Reaper's Scythe danced like a living flame—slashing, spinning, curving with elegant violence—while Grant countered each blow with calculated precision.
Freya wasn't just testing her strength anymore—she was learning the rhythm of her body, the way her bonded weapon responded to her thoughts, her instincts, her fury.
And Grant?
Grant was holding back.
She knew it. Felt it. The way his parries landed just slightly off the mark, the way his sword never went for a killing blow. He was gauging her, refining her. Like a master teaching an apprentice—one clash at a time.
Finally, their weapons locked—scythe caught against sword, both held in the air between them, unmoving.
Freya panted, sweat glistening on her pale forehead, but her grin never faded.
"You're better than I expected," she said.
Grant's only reply was a subtle shift of his jaw—a smirk, maybe, if bone could smirk.
They broke apart with a final push.
Freya lowered her scythe, breathing hard but satisfied. Her arms ached. Her legs burned. But she felt alive in a way she hadn't since arriving in this world.
"Not bad for a dead guy," she said.
The skeleton gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
Freya straightened, crimson eyes glinting in the firelight.
"Next time, don't hold back."
And at that very moment, something blinked at the corner of her vision.
Combat Art: Scythe Mastery – Level 2