Ruger did not choose the house because it was cheap.
He chose it because nothing living wanted to stay near it.
A small cemetery lay just beyond the road. The soil was dry and shallow, as if the land itself refused to nourish anything that still breathed. Even the trees were wrong. Their branches twisted toward the sky, but their roots curled upward, clawing out of the ground like something trying to escape.
Death lingered here.
Not fresh. Not violent.
But old. Settled. Patient.
Perfect.
Ruger pushed the door open and stepped inside. Dust shifted in the stale air, disturbed for the first time in months. The silence was thick, almost physical, pressing gently against his ears.
Good.
That meant no one had touched this place.
He walked through the house slowly, not like a buyer, but like something inspecting territory.
Three rooms upstairs. One large, two small.
The large room would be his.
Not for comfort.
For control.
One of the smaller rooms would store materials. The other would be reserved for experiments.
He paused in the center of the empty floor, then gave a faint smile.
"Yes," he murmured. "This will do."
That night, he summoned it.
Floya appeared in the middle of the room, bones clicking softly as they settled into place. It looked exactly the same as before—fragile, incomplete, and wrong. Cracks ran through its skull. Several ribs were still missing. The unfinished structures on its back still resembled broken wings.
Ruger did not care about its weakness anymore.
He watched it.
The skeleton stood still for a moment.
Then its skull turned.
Not toward him.
Toward the wall.
Ruger's eyes narrowed.
"Look at me," he said.
There was no response.
He pushed his will through the connection and forced alignment.
The skull snapped back toward him instantly.
Still. Obedient.
But he had felt it.
For a brief moment, it had ignored him.
Ruger stepped closer and circled it slowly, observing every detail. Nothing had changed on the surface. The bones were the same. The structure was the same.
But something inside had shifted.
He reached out and touched its rib. Cold. Dry. Lifeless.
Too lifeless.
Ruger frowned slightly.
Then, without warning, he released control.
The connection loosened.
Floya did not collapse.
It stood there.
One second.
Two.
Three.
Then its fingers moved.
A slow, uneven twitch.
Not commanded.
Not controlled.
Ruger's breathing slowed.
"There it is…"
He reasserted control immediately.
The skeleton froze again, perfectly obedient.
But now he knew.
It could move on its own.
Weakly. Inconsistently.
But undeniably.
Ruger's lips curved into a faint smile.
"This is not a failure," he said quietly.
"This is a beginning."
Over the next few weeks, the house changed.
Not visibly.
But in function.
Ruger filled it with hidden lines, triggers, and simple mechanical traps. None of them were meant to kill. They were designed to detect movement, disrupt balance, and test reactions.
Floya became part of that system.
Every day, Ruger summoned it.
Forced it to move.
Released control.
Observed.
Repeated.
Sometimes it twitched faster.
Sometimes it did nothing at all.
Unstable.
Inconsistent.
Ruger did not rush.
That was the important part.
Gold began to pile up in the corner of the room.
This time, Ruger did not bother counting it.
Coins were not wealth.
Coins were potential.
Materials. Weapons. Information.
Control.
He spent most of it quickly.
An elven crossbow.
Modified to fire three bolts at once.
Each bolt coated with paralytic poison.
"Efficiency," Ruger muttered.
Eit laughed when he saw it.
"You're getting worse."
Ruger did not respond.
Worse implied deviation.
He was not deviating.
He was refining.
Master Firth noticed the change.
"You've stopped wasting time," Firth said one evening.
Ruger said nothing.
Firth studied him for a moment, then nodded.
"Good."
He handed Ruger a ring.
"Mana control. It won't make you stronger, but it will make you more precise."
Then he placed a black crystal in Ruger's hand.
"High quality. Turn it into something useful. Or sell it. Either way, you'll need more."
"More gold?" Ruger asked.
Firth laughed.
"No."
"More power."
That night, Ruger sat alone in his house.
The ring rested on his finger.
The crystal lay in his palm.
Floya stood in front of him.
Still.
Waiting.
Ruger loosened control again.
And watched.
This time, the skull turned faster.
Directly toward him.
Ruger did not move.
There was nothing in the eye sockets.
No light. No soul.
And yet, for a brief moment, he felt it.
Being watched.
Far away, in a distant city, Ophiroc stood by a window.
"The house," he said quietly. "Near a cemetery. Isolated. Defensive measures in place."
He paused.
"He's not hiding."
"He's preparing."
Elesis said nothing, but her gaze shifted slightly.
"Interesting," Ophiroc murmured. "Most people run after their first blood."
"He built a nest."
Back in Rhein, Ruger stood in the dark.
Floya stood before him.
The connection between them was thin. Unstable. Dangerous.
Ruger spoke softly.
"What are you becoming?"
The skeleton did not answer.
But its fingers moved.
Just slightly.
Not because of him.
But because it wanted to.
END OF CHAPTER 4