Chapter 2: Why Doesn't This Thing Come with a Manual?

Ray crouched behind a broken wall.

To be precise, he was crouched there, scratching at the ground with his finger bones.

The skeleton beside him—the one that had gone quiet after he "drew a line" on it—stood two meters away, iron rod in hand, the green light in its sockets pulsing calmly. It faced the alley entrance, its posture not exactly on guard, more like it was spacing out.

Ray ignored it for now.

He was looking at something else.

Floating in the center of his vision—several lines of semi-transparent text.

Like water stains on frosted glass. Faint, but legible.

【Status】

Name: Ray / Level: Lv2

Race: Skeleton (Lv1)

Class: Soul Painter (Lv1)

He stared at the words "Soul Painter" for a long time.

Then looked down at his own bony hand.

Then up at the text again.

Soul Painter.

A man who had painted for twenty years. Dead. Not even human anymore. And finally, finally—he'd become a "Painter."

With a "Soul" prefix, no less.

"......Even academic title reviews weren't this absurd."

He'd spent years trying to get promoted to associate professor. Got stuck on quota issues.

Died. Got certified on the spot.

With a system notification to boot.

Fine.

Ray shifted his attention away from the class name and started examining the rest of the information.

No attribute panel. No skill tree. No quest prompts. Just the most basic status info. Like a résumé, and a stripped-down one at that.

He tried mentally poking the text. No response. Tried commanding it to "expand." No response. Tried cursing at it. Still no response.

"The feature set is insultingly sparse," Ray concluded. "But at least it exists."

He stood up. His joints gave a soft click.

Now the question was: what next?

He turned to look at the skeleton beside him.

It was half a head taller than him. Thicker bones. A layer of gray-black residue coated its skeleton—years of accumulated dust and dried fluid, maybe. A bit like the crust that forms on oil paint left out too long.

"Can you understand me?"

He hadn't actually produced a sound. The skeleton's reaction suggested it understood the intent.

"I'll call you Ashbone."

The skeleton tilted its head. Its green light flickered once.

"Can you nod or shake your head?"

The green light flickered twice.

No.

"Why did you follow me earlier?"

The skeleton tilted its head further. Then its body moved—it turned, took two steps, stopped, and looked back at him.

The gesture was unmistakable: Follow me.

Ray thought about it. He didn't know where else to go anyway. Might as well follow.

---

The two skeletons moved through the fog-choked narrow alley.

The fog was thinner than the night before. Maybe time was passing—Ray had no reference point. As a skeleton, he felt no exhaustion, no drowsiness. He could only guess from the fog's density. No day and night. No clocks. Just variations in the mist.

The stone road gradually widened. The ruins on either side were more intact, revealing the layout of the streets. A main thoroughfare. Half-collapsed shop-like buildings on both sides. Rusted iron signs still hung above doorways, too corroded to make out—just faint symbols, not words, more like emblematic patterns.

The skeleton ahead walked steadily, its iron rod scraping the ground in a rhythmic screech.

Ray followed, staying alert to his surroundings.

Not that he had to try hard.

With no heartbeat, no breathing, no excess physiological noise, his hearing was exceptionally clear. Every sound from the fog came through cleanly, like filtered audio.

In the distance—the clatter of falling rubble. Probably another building collapsing.

Further out—a low rumble. He couldn't tell if it was wind howling through ruins, or something else making noise.

Closer—

Several figures emerged from the fog.

Ray stopped.

The skeleton ahead stopped too. It turned back, its green light flickering.

Three figures stepped out of the mist.

Three skeletons.

Similar bone structure to Ashbone, but more complete. Almost no black residue on their bones. The same green light burned in their eye sockets, but brighter, sharper—like three cold flames. Each carried a weapon. One held a rusted short sword. One wielded a broken spear. The last dragged a battle-axe missing half its blade.

Undead.

This place was full of undead, just like Ray.

All three skeletons stopped at once.

Their gazes swept over Ashbone—paused for a moment—then landed on Ray.

And stopped.

Fog drifted between them.

Ashbone shifted sideways, placing itself between Ray and the newcomers.

The green light in its sockets blazed—brighter and more agitated than when it had first confronted Ray.

Ray didn't move.

He was looking.

With that vision that wasn't sight.

The three skeletons' structures unfolded before him. Similar bone proportions, but different details. The one with the short sword had a noticeably thicker right arm—the clavicle and scapula showed micro-fractures from repeated stress. A right-handed warrior in life. The one with the spear had a slightly different pelvic shape and narrower ribs. Female in life. The one with the axe had compression fractures along its spine. Long-term heavy load-bearing in life.

But none of that mattered.

What mattered was what lay deep in their chest cavities.

Tangled lines.

Just like Ashbone before it was fixed. Lines churning in chaos. That core Crack tearing itself apart.

And then Ray noticed something else.

The tangled lines in their bodies were pulsing toward him.

Like they'd been triggered by something.

All three skeletons locked their gazes on him.

Not on Ashbone.

On him.

The short-sword skeleton took a step forward.

Ashbone raised its iron rod, blocking its path.

The short-sword skeleton stopped. Its gaze passed over Ashbone and stayed fixed on Ray. The green light in its sockets flickered faster and faster. The tangled lines in its chest churned violently.

It opened its mandible.

And released a silent vibration.

Not a sound—at least, not one Ray could hear. But his soul caught it—a percussive wave, distinctly repulsive.

A signal.

The other two skeletons responded simultaneously.

The spear-skeleton raised its broken spear. The axe-skeleton dragged its ruined axe forward.

Ray stepped back.

He understood.

The undead in the Dead City, including Ashbone, didn't attack each other unprovoked. When Ashbone had chased him, it was more like driving him away—expelling him from its territory, not killing him.

But this was different.

These three skeletons didn't look at him like a fellow undead.

They looked at him like an outsider.

They could feel it. Something about him was different from the other undead.

Inside him was a living soul.

And they could sense it.

Ashbone hadn't been triggered because Ray had repaired part of its soul-structure. The Crack had shrunk. Less sensitive. Or maybe Ashbone was just less sensitive to begin with—perhaps each undead had a different threshold for detecting "living souls."

But these three were clearly just as sensitive as Ashbone had been before.

Ray took another step back.

Three against one. No—Ashbone was helping him. One and a half against three. Yesterday he'd been chased by one skeleton. Today he was surrounded by three. His social circle was expanding at an alarming rate.

The short-sword skeleton charged.

Its movement wasn't a mindless frenzy. It lowered its center of gravity, blade tucked against its hip, footsteps light and even on the stone. A trained warrior's muscle memory.

Ray saw the trajectory—the short sword slicing upward from the lower right, aiming for his cervical spine.

He'd sketched human motion thousands of times in the studio. Arm rises. Scapula rotates. Clavicle lifts. He knew every movement's origin and endpoint like the back of his hand.

The instant the blade came up, Ray shifted sideways—just enough for it to graze past his neck bones.

A few bone shavings flew off.

Sparks scattered into the fog.

The short-sword skeleton adjusted for a second strike. But Ray didn't wait. As he sidestepped, the bone shard was already in his hand.

Not a stab.

A stroke.

The tip of the shard traced across the inside of the opponent's wrist. No bone there—just joint space. The chaotic lines converged there, like a tangled knot.

A single light stroke.

The knot loosened—just a little.

Not all the way. But enough.

The short-sword skeleton's right hand suddenly went limp. The blade clattered to the stone. It staggered back, its green light flashing wildly—from fury to confusion, from confusion to bewilderment. The churning lines in its chest began to settle.

Just like Ashbone after that first stroke.

But the other two skeletons reacted differently.

They didn't look at their defeated companion. They looked at Ray. Their green light blazed brighter. The tangled lines in their chests churned like stirred muddy water.

That "non-undead" aura emanating from Ray had grown clearer after he used his ability.

The axe-skeleton let out a silent vibration.

Then charged.

Ashbone met it head-on. Iron rod against axe blade. A dull thud. Bone chips flew. The axe-skeleton was stronger—cracks spiderwebbed up Ashbone's left arm—but the rod didn't leave its grip.

The spear-skeleton circled around, spearhead aimed at Ray's ribs.

Ray had no choice. He gripped the shard again.

This time, he saw it clearly.

The Crack deep in the spear-skeleton's chest—the moment he drew near, it shuddered. Not from fear. Not from hatred. From pain. That Crack hurt. And it—she—directed that pain at the nearest thing that smelled wrong.

Which was him.

Ray drove the shard into the tangled lines at her shoulder.

And drew.

A lighter stroke this time. Shorter.

Just severed one thread.

The spear-skeleton's weapon stopped mid-thrust.

She froze. The green light in her sockets dimmed slowly—from piercing cold-fire to soft firefly glow.

Then her arm dropped.

The spear tip touched the stone.

She didn't move.

Silence fell over the scene.

The axe-skeleton stopped. It looked at Ray, then at the spear-skeleton standing motionless. Its green light flickered a few times. The chaos in its chest still churned, but slower.

It dragged its axe back one step.

Then another.

Then turned and disappeared into the fog.

Ashbone still held its rod aloft. The crack on its left arm extended from wrist to elbow—but the bone hadn't broken. It turned to look at Ray, its green light flashing a few times. Ray was starting to read that frequency—this one was probably a question mark.

"I'm fine," Ray said.

He walked over to the short-sword skeleton, now crouched on the ground, cradling its limp right hand with its left. Its green light pulsed dimly. All aggression gone. Just confusion.

Then he walked to the spear-skeleton. She still stood in place, green light pulsing quietly. Spear tip against the stone. Posture like a sentry.

Ray looked at the two now-calm skeletons.

Then turned to Ashbone.

"......I'm not going to pick up one of these every time I go out, am I."

Ashbone planted its rod on the ground. Its green light flickered.

That frequency, Ray guessed, meant: Who told you to smell like a living human?

Two things he needed to figure out.

First: his living soul did attract sensitive undead. How wide was the range? How high was the frequency?

Second—

Ray looked down.

Semi-transparent text appeared in his vision again.

【Status】

Name: Ray / Level: Lv3

Race: Skeleton (Lv1)

Class: Soul Painter (Lv2)

Lv3.

So using the Soul Painting ability did grant experience. One fight. Two strokes. Level up.

He tried to look at the two quiet skeletons.

More information appeared in his vision.

【Skeleton】Lv3

Race: Undead

Same as Ashbone at first glance. Race and base level only. No name. No class. No specific level.

He could still only see that much.

At Lv3, the system let him see others' names and race.

Wait.

The race displayed was "Undead," not "Skeleton."

While his own race was listed as "Skeleton (Lv1)."

Ray thought for a moment.

"Undead" was probably the general category for undead creatures. "Skeleton" was a sub-category. The system's recognition accuracy was limited by his level—he could only see the broadest classification. With more levels, he should be able to see more specifics.

So by that logic, as he kept leveling, he'd eventually see others' specific race, class, and exact level.

The path was clear.

The only problem—

He had to level up while being treated as a living target by every undead in the city.

Ray looked at the three skeletons before him. Ashbone's arm was cracked. The other two had just calmed down—he didn't know if they'd follow him yet.

He tapped his cranium with a finger bone.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Then crouched down and picked up the rusted short sword dropped by the first skeleton.

He didn't grip the hilt.

He snapped off the decayed blade tip.

Kept the hilt and about fifteen centimeters of broken blade. The edge was sharp—but he ground it against the stone a few times, honing a sharper point.

Not a weapon.

A brush.

He crouched in front of Ashbone and examined the cracks on its left arm. The axe wound ran from wrist down past the elbow. No misplaced lines—just physical damage. He could repair soul-structure, but not bone itself.

"Flesh wound," Ray said.

Ashbone's green light flickered. Probably didn't understand the term.

"That means your bone isn't broken. Keep using it."

Ashbone switched the rod to its right hand. Good enough.

The two newcomers still stood where they were. The short-sword skeleton cradled its wrist, green light pulsing dimly. The spear-skeleton remained like a statue, spear tip on the ground.

Ray looked at them.

"You must have had names."

No response.

"You." He pointed at the short-sword one. "Short sword. Swordsman? No, too generic. I drew on your wrist, so I'll call you..."

He paused.

"Wrist-Break."

The short-sword skeleton's green light flickered once. Whether agreement or random response, Ray couldn't tell.

"You." He turned to the spear-skeleton. "I drew on your shoulder. But calling you 'Scapula' is a bit much."

Ray studied her posture. Spear tip grounded, shaft resting against her shoulder. Probably some kind of guard in life.

"Ground-Spear."

The spear-skeleton's green light burned steadily.

Ashbone tapped its rod against the stone—clang, clang. Ray could read that frequency now. Impatience.

"I know. Let's find somewhere to hole up."

He turned to look at the fog-shrouded street. Three skeletons stood beside him. No body heat. No heartbeats. Just four pairs of pale green soul-flames burning quietly in the mist.

"Which way?"

Ashbone stepped forward.

Ray followed. Wrist-Break and Ground-Spear trailed silently behind. Footsteps on the stone—click, click, click—three-part harmony.

He gripped the "brush" he'd ground from the short sword. Bone dust still clung to his fingertips, now dried.

He suddenly wanted to draw something.

Not soul-painting. Just ordinary drawing. Bone dust mixed with water, on stone. Draw this city. Draw these skeletons. Draw the fog.

Twenty years teaching foundational sketching. Only after death did he realize he'd never drawn a single thing for himself.

Funny, when you thought about it.

Click. Click. Click.

Footsteps echoed through the fog.

Morning in the Dead City—if it was morning—had just begun.

An art teacher who had painted for twenty years walked into the depths of the fog, three silent skeletons at his side. In his hand, a brush forged from a broken sword tip. On his fingertips, traces of bone-dust gray.

He was thinking: today, could he find a flat stretch of stone wall?