Reincarnated with the Country System

The chamber reeked of death. A thick, iron tang clung to the cold air, curling into the noses of those present, setting their teeth on edge. The torches flickered, casting jagged shadows on the stone walls. It wasn't just the stench—it was the weight of it, the unholy stillness that clung to the corpse laid out on the slab.

Alberto sat in his high-backed chair, fingers steepled, gaze locked on the body before him. The dead man was young—barely more than a boy, his uniform still stained with the mud of the battlefield. His throat was a ruin of torn flesh, split wide by a blade that had ended him too quickly to leave him suffering. He had died in service to the Bernard Empire, and now he would serve again.

The assembled men—a half-circle of magicians, scholars, and officers—stood in rigid unease. Even the battle-hardened among them, men who had watched thousands die and had sent countless more to the dirt, felt something unnatural coil in their guts.

"This is folly," one of the officers muttered. His voice was a dry rasp, aged and brittle. "The dead should rest, Your Majesty. There is a balance to these things."

Alberto's lips twitched into something between amusement and annoyance. He rose to his feet, his boots clicking against the polished stone floor, his voice smooth as velvet and just as dark.

"There is balance," he said, circling the slab like a predator. "And there is dominion." He placed a hand on the corpse's forehead, fingers pressing against the cold, slack skin. "We take from the earth. We take from the sea. We take from the living, molding them to our will. Why then, should we not take from the dead?"

No one dared respond.

Alberto exhaled, steadying himself. He had only begun to scratch the surface of this power, but tonight—tonight, he would peel back the layers, plunge into the abyss, and carve his name into the marrow of the world.

He spoke the words, ancient syllables that slithered through the air, thick with something primal and unclean. His fingers burned against the corpse's flesh, heat radiating from his palm, spreading into the body like a slow infection. The torches guttered, the flames shivering as if afraid.

And then—

A sound.

A breath.

The corpse twitched.

A single, violent shudder wracked the body, fingers spasming, feet scraping against the slab. The dead man's mouth opened wide, sucking in air with a wet, gurgling gasp. His eyes shot open—milky, unfocused, pupils dilated to pools of black. His chest heaved, jerking upward like a fish dragged from water, lungs rediscovering the cruelty of breath.

One of the researchers staggered backward, knocking over a stack of books. Another clutched at the amulet around his neck, whispering prayers under his breath. The room was silent save for the resurrected soldier's ragged breathing.

Alberto leaned forward, his gaze burning.

"Speak."

The corpse's jaw worked, the tendons creaking like rusted hinges. For a moment, nothing. And then, a strangled sound—a voice clawing its way up a throat that had been silent too long.

"...Hhhaahhh…"

The room tensed. The magicians braced themselves, hands hovering over their charms. The officers reached for their swords, though what steel could do against such a thing, none of them knew.

Alberto's smile was slow and dangerous.

"Do you know your name?"

The corpse twitched, head jerking to the side in an unnatural, puppet-like motion. His lips parted, breath wheezing. "I… I… was…" His voice was a wreck of sound, scraping, raw, as if he was speaking through shredded vocal cords.

Something was wrong.

His fingers curled, nails scraping against the stone. His eyes darted wildly, unfocused. And then, his back arched, body convulsing violently. His mouth yawned open in a silent scream, lips pulling back over teeth that were now too sharp, too white.

One of the magicians recoiled. "Your Majesty—"

The corpse moved.

It was fast. Too fast. A blur of motion as it lunged, knocking the nearest officer to the ground. Snapping teeth, clawing hands. The man shrieked, struggling, but the thing was too strong.

Alberto's eyes gleamed.

"Hold."

The officers hesitated, hands tightening on their weapons.

The creature—the thing that had once been a soldier—froze at the sound of Alberto's command. Its breath rasped through clenched teeth. Slowly, like a puppet being pulled by unseen strings, it turned its head toward the king.

Alberto took a step closer. "Kneel."

For a long moment, it didn't move. And then, it obeyed. Its joints cracked, muscles spasming as it forced itself to kneel before the king, its body fighting the motion even as it complied.

The room was silent, thick with horror.

One of the scholars found his voice, though it was weak and trembling. "This… this is an abomination."

Alberto turned his head slightly, just enough to let the man know he was heard.

"An abomination?" he mused. "Or proof?"

"Proof of what?"

Alberto smiled, slow and sharp. "That death is just another leash."

The scholar's face paled.

The kneeling creature twitched. Its head cocked at an odd angle, like it was listening to something no one else could hear. Its lips peeled back in a grotesque mockery of a grin.

"... Your Majesty…"

The voice was wrong. It slithered across the air, distorted, layered—like too many voices speaking at once. The words carried an almost… knowing edge.

Alberto crouched before the thing, eyes gleaming. "You can speak."

It shuddered. The grin widened. "I… remember…" The breath rattled from its throat, more wheeze than speech. "I… see…"

A chill curled through the room.

Alberto's fingers tightened on his knee. "See what?"

The thing let out a sound—somewhere between a laugh and a death rattle.

"You."

A pause.

And then, it began to laugh.

A horrible, wet, choking sound, filled with something far too knowing. The laughter twisted, higher, more manic, splitting through the still air. The officers flinched. The magicians stepped back, their faces drawn.

Alberto simply watched.

The creature's head snapped up, those black, endless eyes locking onto him. The laughter stopped.

And then, in a voice that was not its own—

"You should not have done this."

The torches blew out.

The chamber was swallowed by darkness.