Reincarnated with the Country System

The chamber was swallowed by darkness.

A thick, living kind of dark—the kind that slithered into the bones and wrapped itself around the heart like a coiling vice. It was absolute. The torches had not merely been extinguished; their fire had been *devoured*, snuffed out as if the very air itself had turned against them.

The silence was the worst part.

Not the silence of emptiness, but the silence of something waiting.

Alberto did not move. He did not flinch. His breath was steady, controlled, even as he felt the shift in the room—the slow, dreadful way the presence thickened, congealing in the air like clotted blood.

And then—

A whisper.

Not a voice. Not words. Just a shape of sound, curling through the dark like fingers trailing along the nape of the neck. A hiss, a sigh, a thing that slithered between the gathered men, filling their lungs with something rank and wrong.

Someone choked—a sharp, gasping sound. A body staggered. Cloth rustled. Boots scraped against stone.

Alberto could hear it, smell it—the stink of sweat, the sickly-sour reek of fear.

Good.

Fear was a blade. A leash. A lesson.

"Steady," he murmured, voice smooth as cut silk.

A lie.

Nothing was steady here.

Another whisper. This one closer. This one laughing.

And then—

Light.

It burst into existence, raw and violent, as one of the magicians flung a hand forward, summoning a crackling sphere of magefire. The glow spread, illuminating the chamber in a sickly, flickering light.

And the thing—

Was still kneeling.

But it was not the same.

No.

No, this was wrong.

The body had twisted. Warped. The uniform still clung to it, but now it hung looser, as if the skin beneath had begun to shrink, to wither. The fingers had lengthened, the nails curving, blackened, like something left too long in the grave.

But the face—

Gods. The face.

It was no longer the face of a young soldier.

It had shifted, stretched. The skin was too tight, pulled too thin over bones that did not belong. The lips had split at the corners, torn into something too wide, a mockery of a smile that dripped black ichor. The eyes—oh, *the eyes*—

Black as tar. Black as the void between stars.

And something moved within them.

Something that saw.

Something that knew.

"You should not have done this," the voice repeated, hollow and layered, slithering from that ruined mouth.

A cold weight settled in Alberto's stomach. Not fear—never fear—but something just as sharp.

Annoyance.

A challenge.

"You are bound," he said, slow and deliberate, his voice a low command. "I own you."

The thing grinned.

"Do you?"

The words crawled through the air, sinking beneath the skin like hooks.

And then it moved.

No hesitation. No warning.

One moment it was kneeling, the next it was on its feet, its body snapping upright in a motion so unnatural it made bones ache just to witness it.

The officer closest to it barely had time to scream.

It ripped through him.

Not with claws. Not with teeth.

With touch.

The moment its hand connected, the officer's body collapsed. Flesh shriveled, muscles wasted away, his eyes rolling back as his skin turned gray and tight. A scream died in his throat as he fell—a dried husk, a thing left too long in the sun.

Dead.

Truly, terribly dead.

The chamber erupted.

Shouts. Steel. Spells.

A magician threw fire—blue-hot, searing. It hit the creature dead-on.

And did nothing.

The flames kissed its flesh and slid away, dispersing like mist, as if the thing were rejecting reality itself.

Alberto did not move.

He watched.

The creature turned, those black void-eyes locking onto him.

It saw him.

Not as a man. Not as a king.

But as something small.

It tilted its head, that awful, knowing smile widening.

"You think you hold the leash," it whispered. "But you are not the master."

Alberto exhaled slowly. "I am the Emperor."

And then, without hesitation, without fear, he come forward.

Gasps. Someone cursed. Someone else muttered a prayer.

The thing did not flinch.

Alberto raised a hand. "Kneel."

For a moment—just a moment—it hesitated.

And then, slowly, painfully, it obeyed.

The body jerked, limbs spasming as it fought itself, as something inside it tried to resist. The bones creaked. The spine twisted. But inch by inch, it sank, shuddering, kneeling once more before the king.

Alberto loomed over it.

"You do not frighten me," he murmured.

The creature laughed.

"Not yet," it whispered.

And then, as the magefire guttered, as the officers steadied their swords, as the scholars whispered their trembling prayers—

The thing began to sing.

Soft. Low. A hum at first, then a melody, curling through the air like smoke.

It was a child's song. A lullaby.

A song Alberto had not heard since he was a boy.

His blood turned to ice.

And then—

It spoke.

Not in the voice of a soldier.

Not in the voice of a monster.

But in the voice of his mother.

"Go to sleep, my darling one,

Close your eyes, the night has come…"

His breath caught.

The thing smiled.

And whispered—

"I remember you."

The torches roared back to life.

"Your Majesty," one of the officers barked, his voice sharp with panic. "We must act! This thing— It's playing with us!"

Another officer with a scar running down his cheek, stepped forward, his riffle raised. "Let us put it down, sire."

Alberto raised a hand, his gesture calm but commanding. "Hold."

The word cut through the tension like a blade.

The officers froze, but their eyes flicked to Alberto.

"Your Majesty," the scarred officer said, his voice strained. "This thing— not even alive. It's a devil. We can't risk—"

"I said hold," Alberto repeated.

The creature chuckled, a sound that was wet and guttural, like a corpse choking on its own blood. Its black eyes gleamed with amusement as it tilted its head, studying the officers and bodyguards with a predator's gaze.

"This creature is bound to me. It will obey."

The officers exchanged uneasy glances. The ISSD members shifted uncomfortably, their weapons still raised but their resolve wavering.

"Lower your weapons. Now."