Speaking of the funeral, Pops thought of something else.
“Stay away from the Oil Ink Mister Club for a while,” he advised. “Something’s happened there. I’ll let you know when it’s safe again.”
Jenkins placed the fluffy cat, Chocolate, on the counter as he always did. It waved a paw at him before sprawling out on the wood. He took off his greatcoat and hat, hanging them to one side.
“Someone broke in last night, around midnight. They found some unknown way into the basement, killed a Mr. Biddles, and made off with his body and B-12-2-4118, the Seal of the Undying Dead. There was a massive amount of blood at the scene. Biddles must have died instantly.”
“You mean the 187-year-old immortal?”
A deeply unsettling connection formed in his mind.
“Hmph, immortal? Hardly. The Nightwatchmen are on the case, but there’s no word yet. Just stay away from there for now. I suspect the culprit might have come through the old mine shafts, but the club members have already sealed that route...”
The ashes of those who live unnaturally long lives are prepared from human bodies over 150 years old. It's not a simple cremation. The process requires complicated rituals, and apparently, the manner of death is a factor.
“Speaking of which, Magic Miss has a set of ashes, too. Don’t tell me she’s being targeted as well?”
Noticing Jenkins was lost in thought, Pops cleared his throat to regain his attention, then continued:
“I forgot to tell you before, but the Oil Ink Mister Club has a complicated background. It’s the only local stronghold for the followers of the pseudo-god, the God of Firearms. This particular pseudo-god is on very good terms with the great Lord of War, so the Church turned a blind eye when his followers opened the club here.
The club members won’t let this slide. Their divine arts related to firearms are unusually potent, and with the constant advancements in firearm technology, their pseudo-god has only grown stronger.
There’s no need for us to get caught up in their trouble, so stay away for the next couple of weeks. If you need to practice your shooting, I can recommend another range.”
“Oh, I have those tedious classes starting soon anyway. I can ease up on the firearm practice for a while.”
He hesitated for a moment before asking another question:
“Pops, since I’m attending a funeral this afternoon, I’m worried my bad luck might stir up some trouble. Are there any Cursed Items specifically linked to events like funerals?”
Hearing this, Pops shook his head with a small smile:
“You’re a cautious one, aren’t you? But that’s for the best. Come over here, and I’ll tell you what I know. While there aren’t as many Cursed Items as Extraordinary ones, they far outnumber Bestowals—and that’s only counting the ones that have been recorded and cataloged. Knowing about them is crucial for your safety, even though knowledge of some can be a danger in itself...”
They both sat down in the chairs by the fireplace. Jenkins moved a small windmill model he'd assembled from brass nuts and bolts out of the way.
The model had a small mechanism inside that allowed it to turn.
“There are countless legends and customs surrounding funerals. One of the more famous ones says that if the sun shines during the service, the guest whose face is most brightly illuminated will be the next to die. Most of these tales are just superstitions made up by common folk, but a few of them hold a kernel of truth.
There aren’t many Cursed Items that are specifically tied to funerals, and some of those are linked to specific times and places. So I’ll just tell you about the most well-known ones.
A-12-05-4417, the Resurrection Coffin. It’s not an object, but a phenomenon. It can occur at any official funeral held between October 3rd and February 19th of the following year. To be specific, the material of the coffin holding the body undergoes a strange transformation, causing the corpse to briefly revive. The revival lasts for exactly nineteen seconds, and the reanimated person has no awareness of anything that happened after their death.”
Jenkins furrowed his brow:
“Wouldn’t something like that cause a huge panic? Then why aren’t there any famous legends about it?”
“The phenomenon is exceedingly rare; it might only happen once in several decades. The last documented case of A-12-05-4417 occurred nine years ago in a small border town in the Cheslan Kingdom. But there was a Gravedigger from the Church of Death and End at the funeral. He contacted the Church immediately, so word of the incident never got out.”
Pops nodded, inviting another question.
“Since it’s a Cursed Item, what are its dangerous properties?”
“The danger level of this phenomenon is quite low, and its cursed properties aren’t obvious at first. The reanimated corpse becomes a special kind of ritual component. If someone uses it in a ritual—especially one involving necromantic abilities—the body will transform into a horrifying monster. Its exact powers are hard to describe, but even a lone level-seven Enchanter might not be a match for it. That’s why, if this happens, the body must be incinerated completely. Not even the ashes can be left behind.” Follow current novels on novel⁂fire.net
Jenkins nodded slowly, wondering what Mr. Pisco might say to him if he were to be revived.
“Oh, right. This only happens to the bodies of ordinary people.”
Pops added, and Jenkins immediately dismissed his fleeting thought.
There were a number of other Cursed Items linked to funerals, but Pops didn’t go into great detail. He told Jenkins that if he wanted to learn more, he could look them up in the archives of the Church of Death and End, as some of their records were open to Enchanters from any of the Orthodox Churches.
Around eleven in the morning, Jenkins left the antique shop. He went home to change into a formal suit for the funeral.
The suit made it impossible to tuck Chocolate inside his coat, so he had to leave the cat at home.
Mr. Pisco’s body was to be interred at the public cemetery on the outskirts of the city. The funeral would also be held there, so Jenkins needed to take a carriage.
Last night, Hathaway had offered to accompany him as his companion, but Jenkins had politely declined. He felt it would take up her entire afternoon, and he didn’t want to impose on her.
“How thoughtful of me!”
Fresh flowers had become outrageously expensive since late autumn, but he had no choice but to buy some. Because of his psychological aversion to the young flower seller, he ended up on Deyi Pedestrian Street, which crossed St. George Avenue. He found a flower shop there where a single bouquet cost one shilling and seven pence—an absolutely extortionate price.