Chapter 13 — The Practice Page
"Mr. Cranston, you really can't go a single night without causing trouble, can you?"
The voice was sharp and weary — the same bald-headed officer from before.
It hadn't even been an hour since they'd dragged away the butler's corpse, yet here he was again, boot heels echoing across the floorboards as his men filed back into the house.
Normally, Charles might have traded a few sarcastic remarks just to irritate the man.
But now, he said nothing. His mind wasn't in the present — it was still spinning with the echo of his butler's final words.
'If your father could see you now… perhaps he'd regret it. But it's too late. The Church already has you in its sights.'
That phrase wouldn't leave him alone.
Regret what?
What did the butler mean about my father?
And if he planned everything — why did the police seem just as eager to see me fall? Were they in on it too?
The image of the pistol flashed in his mind — the way the old man had pulled the trigger without hesitation.
The gun was loaded. The shot was deliberate.
That meant… he had planned to die long before Charles ever found out.
But why?
Why lead him into ruin only to kill himself afterward?
Question after question circled endlessly, until Charles barely noticed when the officers began questioning him again. His answers were vague, mechanical — and eventually, they stopped pressing.
The butler's suicide was obvious; the evidence was clear. His motive might involve Charles, but without proof, there was nothing to charge him with.
Not that they needed proof.
To the police — and the Church behind them — a man suspected of black magic was as good as dead already.
Unless he could somehow prove himself absolutely clean.
---
By the time they finished carrying the body away, the clock struck ten. The police left without another word.
The house was silent again — except for the scraping of a mop across the floor.
Charles sighed as he dragged it back and forth, the water streaking across the dark wooden planks.
As a so-called "noble heir," he was supposed to have servants to handle such work. But the truth was, he barely had enough money to keep the lamps burning.
Now, with the butler gone, the only other soul left in the house was Annie, the shy little girl who hid from every loud sound.
And Charles wasn't heartless enough to make a child clean up bloodstains.
He gave a hollow laugh. "Maybe the whole point of my reincarnation was to suffer."
Since arriving in this world, nothing had gone right.
First, he'd woken up at a murder scene and been accused of being the killer.
Then, desperate to escape, he'd stumbled into that portal — a nightmare world of whips, skeletons, and blood.
He had survived, yes, but only barely. The black magic that had saved him had also nearly killed him.
Then came the return — the interrogation, the humiliation, the betrayal.
The butler's deceit.
And, if the man's last words were true, his own father's hand behind it all.
Why? He didn't even want to think about it anymore.
Right now, only one question mattered:
How could he escape the Church?
"If I hadn't practiced those spells," he muttered, wringing the mop, "maybe I'd have a chance. But now…"
He stared at his reflection in the murky water — at the faint black veins still coiled faintly beneath the skin of his arm.
"The Church has ways of detecting dark magic," he whispered. "If what they say is true… maybe my body's already tainted."
Confession?
Claiming he was framed?
Who would believe that?
The butler's death had destroyed the only possible witness, and Charles had no idea what other traps the old man might've left behind.
A bitter smile twisted his lips. "Perfect. Absolutely perfect."
For the first time that night, he felt genuine despair settle into his bones.
Maybe running away is the only choice left.
He dropped the mop, slumping into the nearest chair. Candlelight flickered weakly across his face.
On the table beside him lay a single sheet of parchment — something he'd been using as a practice page for his spells.
Half-burnt runes sprawled across it, glowing faintly red even now, whispering of power and danger both.
He stared at it for a long time before whispering:
"If the Church is coming for me… maybe I should stop hiding what I am."
The candlelight caught in his eyes — not fear, this time, but something sharper.
Resolve.
Run?
Charles stared blankly at the faint candlelight flickering across the wall.
Run where, exactly?
The Holy Church wasn't some petty city militia — it was a continent-spanning behemoth, a machine of faith and steel that crushed anything in its path. Wherever he fled, its reach would find him.
And this was a world of sorcerers, not skeptics.
If the Church wanted to locate someone, they could summon a diviner or a seer to find him in minutes.
On top of that, there was still his father — the man who wanted him dead for reasons unknown — and the powerful Cranston family behind him.
Even if the title of "Count" sounded modest, the elder Cranston wasn't some minor noble. As the Minister of Finance of the Dorin Kingdom, his influence was vast; his word could ruin men in every major city.
Charles let out a dry laugh and looked down at himself — at his rolled-up sleeves, his mop, the bucket at his feet.
All he saw in the mirror was a bitter-faced janitor.
"So much for noble blood," he muttered.
He tried calling on the Eye of True Sight, that mysterious perception he'd used in the other world — but nothing happened.
"Why isn't it working?" he frowned. "Does it only activate beyond the portal?"
If so… then even returning to that world might no longer be possible.
That thought left him restless.
Without the Eye, he couldn't even sense the Gate of Transit — the dimensional doorway that had connected both realms. He began to doubt whether any of it had even been real.
But the memories were too vivid — the smell of blood, the sound of bone cracking, the echo of his spells in that tongue called Westerian Common.
Every detail remained sharp in his mind.
"Run away? Try to bluff my way out? Or just… survive one day at a time?"
Each idea tangled with the next, looping endlessly in his mind. For once, Charles — who had always prided himself on quick wit — had no clear path forward.
Even with the original host's memories, this world was still foreign.
He had no friends, no allies, no power.
Just an old house, a frightened little girl… and the shadow of the Church drawing closer by the hour.
"Earth was easier," he sighed.
Finishing the last of the cleaning, he straightened the room and dragged his tired body down the corridor. He was halfway to the washroom, ready to bathe and collapse into bed — when something tugged at his coat.
He turned.
"Annie?"
There she was — the timid little girl in pink sleepwear, clutching her tattered teddy bear. Her small hand trembled as she held onto the hem of his coat, and when he looked back, she immediately withdrew, hiding half her face behind the toy.
For a strange moment, her timid figure and that bear reminded him of a video game character from his previous life — though this one was far from fierce.
She looked pale, fragile, almost ill.
Charles softened his voice. "What is it?"
She fidgeted, biting her lip, and then — without a word — reached behind the teddy bear and pulled out a small stack of papers.
"I… I hid these inside Mr. Bear," she whispered. "They didn't… they didn't find them."
Puzzled, Charles took the papers. "What are these?"
But before he could get an answer, the girl spun and ran down the hall to her room.
Charles exhaled, torn between exasperation and pity.
If something happens to me, he thought grimly, that child won't even know how to survive.
He glanced at the papers — and his expression froze.
They weren't just papers.
They were practice sheets — the discarded drafts of spellwork from the body's original owner.
He recognized the symbols instantly. The notes belonged to an unfinished spell known as the Curse of Agony — a forbidden hex that required extensive preparation and runic mastery.
Unlike Bone Reanimation, this spell couldn't simply be shouted into existence. It demanded precision — diagrams, runes, blood ink.
The original Charles had been too impatient for that. After failing several times, he'd abandoned it completely, switching to the quicker, more violent art of necromancy.
But he'd never destroyed the notes.
They were still here — written in his handwriting, soaked in latent dark energy.
A smoking gun.
If the Church had found them during their search, there'd be no debate, no trial — just a pyre.
The thought made him shiver.
Thank the gods for that girl.
Quickly, Charles folded the papers and tucked them deep into his inner pocket, forcing himself to calm down.
"Anyway," he muttered, "they already suspect me. Having this or not doesn't make much difference now."
The real danger was being caught with it.
He laughed dryly, shaking his head. "Well, congratulations, Charles. You're officially one bad decision away from burning."
Tucking the papers safely away, he looked toward the small pile of dragon bones by his bed. They glimmered faintly under the candlelight, red-white and eerie.
"I was hoping you'd help me 'rise from the ashes,'" he murmured. "Guess I'll settle for just staying alive."
He lay back on his bed, eyes half-closed, exhaustion finally setting in. But after a moment, he jolted upright, as though remembering something.
He lit the kerosene lamp on his bedside table, picked it up, and stepped quietly out into the corridor.
Stopping before a small wooden door, he knocked softly.
No response.
"I know you can't sleep without a light," he said gently. "I brought mine for you."
Still silence.
He sighed, voice lowering. "I'll leave it by the door. Come get it when you're ready."
Setting the lamp down, he turned and walked away.
Several minutes later, the door creaked open just enough for a tiny hand to reach through, grasp the handle of the lamp, and pull it inside.
The door closed again, and a faint sigh of relief drifted into the quiet hall — barely audible above the whisper of the dying flame.