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Chapter 13 of My Necromancer of the Forbidden Academy
...
About an hour later, Maurice saw Harold at the children's house.
"Where's your owl?" Harold asked as soon as he saw him.
"In the yard."
Morris spoke as he walked into the yard.
At this time, the courtyard was deserted.
He didn't want to reveal the fireworks' special abilities, so he didn't let the fireworks stay in his shadow.
Morris led Harold through the corridor.
"So, you cured that bird's illness?" Harold asked with concern.
"No." Maurice stopped at the gate of the yard and calmly shook his head. "It was dead, but I brought it back to life."
Standing in the yard, Maurice whistled.
A dark figure leaped down from the roof and landed steadily on Morris's raised arm.
Harold recognized it; it was the same listless owl from yesterday.
But now it's much more energetic, even a bit too much so; its eyes are practically burning with energy...
wrong!
My eyes are really burning!
Harold could clearly see the eerie blue flames flickering in the owl's eye sockets.
He stared blankly, his throat dry. "This is... what you meant by bringing it back to life?"
"It's an undead creature, you can touch it," Morris said, extending his arm forward. "You'll understand soon enough."
The firework sat quietly on Morris's forearm, bearing almost no weight—that's part of its nature.
Chapter 13 Sending a Letter
Harold hesitated as he reached out, his fingertips pausing just before touching the feathers, before finally landing gently on the owl's head.
A chill instantly penetrated his entire body.
That's not the temperature a living thing should have.
It's even colder than frozen ice.
It was as if... I had come into direct contact with death itself.
He abruptly withdrew his hand, but the lingering chill on his fingertips wouldn't go away.
The firework twisted its body stiffly—it still didn't like being touched, let alone by a stranger.
"It's an evil creature, isn't it?" Harold asked somewhat uneasily.
"That depends on how you define 'evil,' sir," Morris replied. "I simply recited a spell, and it transformed from a corpse into what it is now. As far as I'm concerned, I haven't done anything 'evil.'
The key to the transformation ritual of undead creatures lies in the fact that the object being transformed must possess a strong will to live.
This is not difficult for ordinary animals, because survival is the instinct of all living things.
In other words, the undead creatures transformed by Morris do not resist continuing to exist in this form.
Harold stared blankly at the undead owl, his eyes gradually losing focus, lost in thought.
"There's something I need to remind you, Mr. Green," Morris suddenly spoke, interrupting Harold's thoughts, "This magic can only be used on animals; it's impossible to resurrect humans. Please don't have any ideas about that."
Harold paused for a moment, then gave a bittersweet, relieved smile.
It seems that Maurice has completely guessed his thoughts.
Indeed, this was no ordinary child.
He sighed, then asked seriously, "So, are there any other forms of magic that can resurrect people?"
"I don't know," Morris raised his arm, sending the fireworks flying back to the roof, "but maybe. However, that would already be a miracle, and I advise you not to overthink it."
He already knew it in his heart.
From the moment they met, he sensed that Harold was a man who harbored a fear of magic, yet some deep-seated desire kept driving this middle-aged man to delve deeper into the realm of magic.
To resurrect someone.
A reasonable and special reason.
When technology cannot do something, magic may offer a glimmer of hope.
This is probably why he couldn't wait to get his hands on magic.
"This magic can only be used on animals."
In fact, Morris said that on purpose.
The transformation of undead creatures is likely to be effective on humans as well.
However, he wasn't ready yet.
Unlike ordinary animals, turning humans into the dead requires immense courage and determination.
Furthermore, whether the transformed spirits can retain their original personality and consciousness is also a question.
Further verification is needed.
Maurice was unwilling to give others hope easily, because once hope was given, what awaited them would be even deeper despair.
Harold's gaze followed the owl's flight as it swooped onto the roof, his voice trembling slightly. "I understand... Thank you for telling me all this, Morris."
"Hmm," Morris replied.
"Would you like to hear my story?" Harold asked softly.
"No," Morris replied crisply, "I have no interest in other people's tragic past."
"..."
Why not play by the rules?
Harold turned his head and laughed twice. "That's not a tragic past, but... if you don't want to hear it, then forget it."
The sky darkened without us realizing it, dark clouds rolled in from afar, and a damp atmosphere filled the air.
"It looks like it's going to rain," Harold said, looking up at the overcast sky. "I should go; my daughter is waiting for me at home."
He smiled gently at Maurice, a hint of relief in his smile. "Goodbye, my friend."
"Goodbye." Maurice waved. "If there's anything I can do for you, feel free to come to me anytime."
...
When Maurice returned inside, the sky was completely shrouded in black.
Under the light of the corridor, the fireworks silently blended into his shadow.
Immediately afterwards, a torrential downpour began.
A strong wind blew rain through the cracks in the window.
The hallway echoed with the excited screams of children and the hurried footsteps of caregivers closing windows.
Morris loves rainy weather, but he doesn't like noisy environments.
So he immediately decided to return to his dormitory.
Inside the dormitory,
"Where have you been?" Scott asked without looking up, still focused on wiping the small knife he had picked up from somewhere.
"Just wandering around for a bit." Morris took off his damp coat and casually asked, "By the way, do you have any envelopes or stationery here?"
He remembered that Scott had written a letter.
Scott didn't look up, gently scraping the dirt from under his fingernails with the tip of his knife. "It's in the left drawer. But who are you writing to?"
"Give it to an acquaintance."
Morris replied casually.
He opened the drawer and found a stack of yellowed letter paper and several envelopes with slightly curled edges.
I have no idea where Scott got it from.
He probably smuggled it from somewhere; this guy doesn't seem as honest as he looks.
Scott finally looked up and said, somewhat surprised, "You'll have to figure out the postage yourself."
"Oh, no problem."
Owls deliver messages for free, only consuming a little food—but fireworks are undead creatures, so they don't even require food.
The pen scratched across the paper, making a soft, hissing sound.
Morris planned to write to the man named Ezra Frick first, inquiring about the whereabouts of the skeleton.
Buying it would be the best outcome.
If possible, he will visit them again later.
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