I Refused To Be Reincarnated

The younger students still lurched, saliva drooling from their lips along with bile as their backs shuddered. Even the oldest ones' faces were contorted where they stood—at the edge of the stone platform—as if stepping back would have protected them from the demon.

Adam didn't doubt a few would have jumped had Haldris not recalled the demon inside the talisman. Then he saw Quintella lying on the ground, gasping for air. She clung to Sarah and two other girls, sobbing in wordless horror as her whole body trembled.

The horned demon's exposed fangs, jagged like throwing knives, when it had threatened Haldris. To Quintella, it must have looked like her worst nightmare given flesh.

He wanted to comfort her, but before he could take a step, Nadia raised her hand. Her conversational tone contrasted with the general dread when she asked, "How many will I be able to summon after mastering this technique?"

His gaze lingered on Sarah, who patted Quintella's back—just as Desmond's sweaty hand met his shoulder. "Your sister is fine, but us? The rector is watching. We'd better listen." His voice quivered like the twang of a loose bowstring.

Biting his lip, Adam reluctantly nodded. He had to impress Haldris to protect Quintella from Grimhilde. Not paying attention now could ruin everything. With a shake of his head, he shoved his worries down. Free of their weight, he subconsciously leaned forward, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. Several questions tugged at his mind, questions Haldris would surely answer even if he didn't ask.

"How many, you ask?" Haldris raised an amused brow. "Fearless, aren't you? Unfortunately, I'll have to disappoint your grand ambitions. Keeping one talisman of your tier active will strain your magic circuits enough."

Jonathan instantly raised his hand. "Then why bother with this over necromancy, Teacher? Ten undead sound far more practical."

"Excellent question!" Unbothered, Haldris nodded with something approaching recognition. "Necromancy is a darker art, in which corpses and the stench of rotting flesh will accompany your every step. Take Teacher Marcellus Noct Virein's undead as an example. They partially preserved their egos, knowledge and skills, making them quite impressive. But—" He raised three fingers. "He needs a corpse in satisfactory condition. Then he must preserve it from decaying every few months, a tedious task. Last but not least, an undead is weaker than when he was alive. Be it magic circuits, muscles, or bones, the longer the corpse remains buried, the more everything withers."

Jonathan nodded, and Haldris continued. "I don't deny necromancy has its advantages, but it falls short compared to this battle technique. No body maintenance; the mist recreates it based on the soul memories of its shell. Therefore, no loss of power or need to hunt for ancient corpses."

Spurred by the good news, the terrified students began to rise with the help of their comrades. They still trembled or winced, but an eager spark slowly returned to their eyes. However, Adam leaned back, fingers around his chin. A mist that recreated bodies based on soul memories? What ancient and surreal sorcery was this?

He had to ask.

As he raised his hand, Trevor stole his chance. He stood at the forefront, wheat colored ponytail and coral hairpin catching the sunlight as his hand shot up. "How does this actually work?"

Haldris' lips curved into half a smile. "Going over the spell's complexities would take too long, but I reckon you've learned that souls refuse foreign bodies?"

Most students shook their heads.

"It doesn't matter." Haldris joined his palms, chuckling. "Soul and body go in pairs. You can't change one. Ghosts can't possess bodies without rejecting them. Strenuous methods exist, but they can't guarantee success even with thousands of years of preparation; otherwise, revival would be common."

He shook his head. "Now comes the short answer: each soul has a unique mark it brands onto your body at birth. The mist channels that mark into a temporary replica of the soul's body. But don't misunderstand. The mist is merely a tool. It's your mana that will shape it, your will that will control the called creature, and your wit that will make it submit."

Adam nodded, unsatisfied with an explanation he likely knew better than most teachers. After all, he had seen one of these methods when Selene Sunfire's soul had possessed his descendant. His own body came from merging his soul with it through the fusion pool—another method much riskier now that he thought about it. But something felt too simple.

His eyes narrowed with possibility. Since the mist could recreate bodies from the soul's mark, couldn't he make it permanent? Of course, mere mist would be insufficient. What if he replaced it with proper materials? But if he considered it, why wouldn't Haldris have done so thousands of years ago?

Adam glanced at Haldris mid-thought.

Impossible—or had he already developed a real, working method to resurrect the dead?

As if feeling his gaze, Haldris turned toward him. His single golden eye shone with understanding as he shook his head. "Drop it, all of you."

"Drop what?" Adam finally spoke, eyes narrowing.

"Do you think I was born yesterday?" Haldris shook his head, his voice exasperated as he watched other students who seemed to have understood that resurrection might be possible. "Students always thought of the same thing, and the answer has always remained the same. Clean resurrection is impossible, a taboo not even I can break."

He turned his back on the students and walked toward the opposite edge of the platform. A gust of wind blew his gray hair, giving him a look that felt like melancholy to Adam but not quite. Gaze lost in the horizon, he sighed. "I know of someone who vowed to succeed fifteen thousand years ago. He is likely still trying. So, for the last time, drop this idea. Your life isn't the only thing you'll lose when you fail—and you will fail."

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AN: The guy who's trying is really still trying...