The desert was silent, but the grave was becoming alive.
Tom stood stunned thinking it's an undead or some black magic stuff.
Dust swirled around his boots. The guava tree's leaves rustled faintly overhead, but the sound felt wrong. It was calm for what was happening beneath it. The hand moved again, breaking more of the grave's surface, clawing at the air like something desperate to breathe.
Tom's mind spun. His heart slammed against his ribs. No… this isn't real. This isn't right.
The soil cracked wider, splitting in lines. Sand rolled off as a figure pushed its way up. A head. Shoulders. A chest, coated in dirt and pale as bone.
The figure rose fully, gasping, trembling as if waking from a nightmare.
Tom's blood went cold. He stumbled back, dagger sliding into his hand by instinct. "Zombie…" he hissed under his breath, body tensed. His Face stirred faintly above him in the air, ready. "You're not him. You can't be him."
The figure blinked, his eyes dull, unfocused then catching a light very familiar.
"…Tom."
The voice was raspy, human like. Known.
Tom's grip on the dagger tightened. His chest hurt. "No. Don't—don't say my name. You're some trick. Who the hell is around here controlling the corpse! Come out! You can't scare me with a dead body!"
The figure raised his hand slowly, dirt falling from his fingers. His lips parted again, weak, trembling. "…Stop. It's… me."
Tom's blade shook. Not because it was an undead, because it was Elior's corpse....
The sunlight touched the man's face fully now. The sharp jaw. The scar near his temple. The eyes that once carried quiet storms. His long gray hairs moved briefly by the flow of air.
"Elior…?" Tom whispered. His voice cracked.
The man stood there, barefoot on his own grave, still trembling, still coated in sand and stone. His expression was lost, confused. "I don't… I don't know how." His hand pressed to his chest, as if checking he was real. "But… it's me. I swear."
Tom staggered, dagger lowering slowly. His mind refused, but his heart screamed otherwise.
The desert wind carried silence. The grave, broken open behind Elior, gaped like a wound. Neither spoke again. One couldn't believe. The other didn't understand.
30 seconds later,
They walked side by side across the sand, neither speaking for a while. The desert wind pushed gently at their coats.
Elior brushed some dirt from his arm, still unsteady, barefoot, as if every step reminded him he shouldn't even be alive.
Tom finally spoke, his voice low. "You know… you're walking awfully straight for a dead man."
Elior chuckled faintly, though his face carried no ease. "And you've grown awfully sharp for someone who used to lag behind." His eyes shifted toward Tom, soft but firm. "Congratulations. You did it, didn't you? Your Face. I can feel it clinging to you."
Tom didn't answer right away. His fingers tapped his side, restless. "…Yeah. Hawking's Trojan Chair."
Elior smirked, faint pride lighting his tired eyes. "Fitting. You always liked twisting things around. A strategist's Face. Makes sense."
They walked a few more steps. Tom finally let out a breath. "If this is really you, then where's your Face? You always had that cursed branch stuck to your shoulder."
Elior's expression dimmed. His hand brushed his own chest. "Gone. Law of this world. When death takes you, your Face is stripped away. What comes back is… less. Rank drops by one. I'm Uptie 2 again. Level 1." He looked at his hand, flexing his fingers like a stranger testing their own body. "I've been rewound."
Tom frowned, staring at the sand under his boots. "…So you're weaker. And yet you came crawling out of your own grave."
"Not crawling," Elior said with a dry laugh. "Clawing." His tone grew heavier. "I don't remember how. Only fragments. A… thing, shapeless, beyond all forms. It tried to speak to me. Its words were close, but broken, like echoes in glass. Then I woke up here suddenly. I can even remember a shit."
Tom didn't reply. His brows furrowed, mind running fast. He knew Elior wasn't one for lies, but the weight of his words made his skin crawl.
Elior glanced at him. "In this world, resurrection isn't unheard of. Items, rituals, even divine accidents. But they always demand something. Always cost you. I lost my Face, my rank. Maybe more. I can't even tell what's missing yet."
Tom rubbed his temple. "You talk like it's normal. Like crawling back from death is just another errand."
"Would you rather I wept?" Elior asked softly. His eyes were steady, though shadowed by something deeper. "I lived. I'll pay what it cost later."
They walked in silence for a stretch. Tom exhaled, scratching the back of his head. "Grace… she's gonna lose it. What am I supposed to say? 'Hey, look, the guy we buried last week just came back from vacation'?"
A faint smile tugged Elior's mouth. "Say nothing. Let her see."
Before Tom could reply, a sharp sound split the air, glass shattering sound.
Both turned behind cautiously.
Grace stood a few steps ahead, a tray trembling in her hands, a glass of tea spilled into the sand at her feet. Her wide eyes locked on Elior. The tray slipped entirely, clattering down.
Grace's lips parted, but no words came out. Her mind rejected what her eyes showed her. It can't be him… I buried him. I cried for him. I prayed over his grave. Her hands shook. She whispered to herself, almost pleading, smirking silently," Huh? Looks like I am thinking about him too much. I must be… hallucinating…."
Her knees wobbled as though the ground might open beneath her.
Elior stepped closer, slow, careful, like approaching a frightened bird. "Grace," he said softly, his voice carrying the weight of something both familiar and impossible. "It's me. Wake up."
Grace's breath hitched. She blinked fast, trying to push the image away, but the figure remained.
The closer he came, the clearer he became nor a vision or shadow, but Elior. The faint scars on his hands. The steadiness of his gaze. The quiet way he carried himself.
A small drop slid down her cheek before she realized she was crying. Her hand flew to her face, but her fingers trembled too much to wipe it away.
Tom, standing a step behind, didn't say a word. He only watched with a faint smile tugging at his lips, as if he too could hardly believe it.
Elior finally reached her. His hand rose, tentative, before settling gently on her shoulder. She flinched at the contact.
He leaned in, voice low, steady. "Uh... did ya miss me?"
Her lips quivered, and before she could gather her voice, he drew her into a light embrace.
It was just enough to tell her he was real. His hand pressed lightly against her back, steadying her shaking frame.
Grace's chest heaved against him, her breath uneven, as if her heart hadn't yet caught up with what was happening. She clutched his arm weakly, still uncertain, but unwilling to let go.
Behind them, Tom looked up at the sky, exhaling slowly. His faint smile remained quiet, knowing and bittersweet.
Elior loosened his hold and gently tapped Grace's cheek, coaxing her out of the daze. "Wake up properly now," he said with a faint smile.
Grace drew a shaky breath and stepped back, hurriedly brushing the wetness from her eyes with her sleeve. She avoided their stares for a moment, embarrassed, but her lips trembled into the smallest smile.
Tom folded his arms, his tone lighter, steadying the air. "You should meet the others," he said to Elior. "They'll be glad… happier than you think."
Elior looked between them, nodding slowly. His expression was calm on the surface, but with a depth that showed he wasn't entirely sure what to expect.
Grace finally lifted her eyes again, a soft glow in them despite the tears. "We were… planning a little party this afternoon," she said quietly. "There's food. You should come. Everyone will want to see you."
For a moment, silence stretched. Only the desert wind carried through the bunker's open doorway.
Elior let out a long breath and allowed a faint smile to curve his lips. Tom gave a small nod, and Grace, this time, smiled more fully, though her hands still clutched one another tightly.
The three of them began to walk, not needing to say more.