The Undead's Curiosity
Razma, back at Kikiwai, threw himself into work once more, but in his spare moments, he began personally investigating the symptoms of the young undead orphan girl, Rainy.
There wasn't any particular reason for it. He was simply intrigued by the fact that an undead who had already experienced death once could have their soul shatter and face a second death.
"Fascinating. An incurable disease that causes the undead to lose their very existence."
For someone like him, who had lived a lifespan comparable to that of an average elf even when counting only the time since becoming undead, this case was profoundly interesting. In modern society, it was hard to fathom a revenant—who had already lost their life once—vanishing due to any cause other than accidents or murder.
"Is this the authority figure the director mentioned...?"
Razma, an Ectopl whose body had ceased to exist entirely, existing now as a spirit contained in a special vessel, had no concept of sleep. Thanks to that, he could organize client data or gather information on fields that piqued his interest while others slumbered.
What he'd uncovered today was the personal details of a doctor who had taken an interest in Rainy's rare condition. The man's career was impeccable, especially since he'd publicly declared his intent to find a cure for this bizarre illness. And his morality checked out too.
"...Hoo."
The doctor's name was Marcus Bernard. A genius who, at just fourteen, had entered the prestigious medical school at Linden University—the top institution in Great Huuriten—and over the past thirty years, achieved groundbreaking research in the two most complex fields: neurology and necromancy.
Born in the slums at the bottom of Lake Vainum as a dark-skinned merfolk prodigy, he was a living embodiment of self-made success. He'd shown glimpses of genius from childhood, and as an adult, he commanded the respect of the academic world. He was famously known for having no personal greed whatsoever.
Intrigued, Razma delved deeper, tapping into networks of fellow undead private bankers to collect more on Dr. Marcus. The man had devoted his entire life to studying souls from a magical medicine perspective, without taking even the slightest personal gain in the process.
He performed brain surgeries and resurrection procedures using applied necromancy at a major university hospital, donating nearly all his salary—minus minimal living expenses—to the impoverished and those with incurable diseases who couldn't afford care. His private clinic, funded with what remained, barely charged enough to cover the nurses' wages.
What kept him afloat were lecture fees from periodic talks and royalties from his specialized books. Razma felt a twinge of awe as he reviewed the life of this sixty-year-old man, who had contributed to medical progress in lonely solitude, without spouse or children.
"...Twisted."
To Razma's eyes, it didn't appear as noble self-sacrifice without expectation of reward. In this tale worthy of a hagiography or religious text, he detected traces of a severely distorted and warped sense of self.
Razma didn't believe saintly paragons existed in modern society. As an Ectopl private banker, he managed clients' wealth across countless dimensions under strict confidentiality. Naturally, he dealt with religious leaders feigning poverty in public, social elites and experts hiding assets for image management, and more.
Thus, he'd witnessed countless clients' true natures and desires behind their public facades. Spotting the mental issues lurking in Marcus Bernard's psyche was no great feat for him.
Even if private bankers kept client info secret, a veteran like Razma could gauge total assets and liquid funds from a name alone. At first, he suspected Marcus of stashing vast wealth for image-building or tax evasion. But no matter how deep he dug, no such traces emerged.
His massive donations went to real patients suffering from terminal illnesses. The receipts were transparent as glass—no signs of tax dodging or money laundering. Suspecting him felt like an insult to the man, incarnation of benevolent medicine though he was.
Words like desire or self-preservation were indeed farthest from this healer. Yet, whether his actions stemmed from pure goodwill remained questionable.
"A case similar to mine, perhaps."
A subtle unease lingered in Marcus's donation records, perceptible only to those long seasoned in handling money: obsessive frequency bordering on paranoia. The calculated donation amounts for treatments reeked of contrivance.
Razma realized the doctor wasn't driven by duty, fulfillment, or honor in saving lives and donating fortunes. It felt akin to his own situation—sponsoring orphans out of some ancient promise he could no longer recall.
"I'll only know for sure by meeting him in person."
For the first time since becoming undead, Razma felt the stirrings of curiosity after decades. Never before had he craved knowledge of something—or someone—like this.
An undead facing a second death, and the doctor seeking to avert it. To Razma, it was a captivating pairing. Perhaps, hidden between them lay a clue to breaking the monotonous ring of his eternal life.
"If only he'd come to the outpost instead of another branch."
And that offhand wish from Razma became reality in less than a few days.
It was an afternoon like any other. Sitting at the teller window, handling customer requests. As usual, Deputy Manager Bishuti was aggressively pushing financial products, while Isaac dealt with clients in his conservative, by-the-book manner.
Deputy Manager Razma, true to form, guarded the leisurely private banking sector without prying into others' work. It was an area for a select few wealthy clients, most of whom booked appointments, making it seem idly quiet.
I still couldn't read his thoughts. Manager Elama had his office door open but stayed holed up inside, doing who-knows-what. Was he surveilling us, or absorbed in something else?
Last time, I'd overheard him clashing with HQ bigwigs over the phone. I'd thought he half-slacked while we worked, pulling in major loan deals, but apparently fending off HQ pressure head-on was part of his job too.
In fact, hadn't he been the one convincing rival faction board members for that Nanoi loan? He might be shouldering complex, grueling tasks we knew nothing about. Quietly, without burdening his subordinates.
"Serves him right."
He should've eased up on working us to the bone. From now on, I'd keep slacking off, trusting Elama to clean up. For the outpost's performance and his own neck, he'd help.
The thought made me chuckle involuntarily, flashing my best smile at customers.
"Wonder if anything fun'll happen."
"Deputy, didn't you say last time you hoped things stayed quiet for a bit?"
Pluto, at the next window, reacted to my mosquito-like mutter.
"You never learn..."
Isaac sighed pityingly. I got their reactions—totally fair. Last time with the Adijen-Minoli couple's loan, nearly dying to an assassin, I'd whined endlessly at the after-work drinks. I blacked out and don't remember what I said, but Pluto recorded my antics, so I spent days at work staring at the floor.
I knew she was prankish, but I let my guard down. Cowardly, striking when I was relieved post-life-threat. Next time, I'd catch her drunk antics for sure.
"The assassin was overkill. But honestly, things have been too dull lately."
"Are you a banker for fun?"
"Nah... but still, something..."
Isaac had a point. As a banker, I should cherish every loan case. Extending a hand to clients in need was my job.
Yet, handling diverse, bizarre loans since joining had wired me to anticipate massive stakes—swaying a race's or world's fate. Routine cases no longer satisfied.
In other branches, such deals might come once a decade, if ever. But our multidimensional outpost's uniqueness drew absurd scales like World Tree collateral or super-robot loans more often.
So, chalk it up to lucky thrills. Yet here I was, in a cushy iron-rice-bowl job, craving excitement.
"Maybe I'm just chasing windmills."
As long as I helped clients and the bank got solid interest—like hearty national dish—loans didn't need to be thrilling. Safety and surety were gold for the bank.
With my Job Authority, I could judge potential flawlessly—no failure risk. Post-promotion, my evolved power gauged it even sharper. Even if overall stats lagged, hope for life and repayment will showed via Goddess Judgment.
I'd told Elama I wanted to approve such cases—even if repayment took longer—and he'd conditionally okayed it. Thanks to my track record on big deals.
Simple reason: Most folks are ordinary. They struggle economically, needing bank aid. Even if they can't repay fast, supporting honest livers to endure and seize chances was my role.
A talentless hack like me judging others? Laughable. So, even if high-potential loans fattened interest less, I greenlit more from employed, creditworthy applicants.
After all, ordinary folks like me propped up world-changing geniuses.
As those thoughts swirled, the dimensional gate opened. An elderly man with an extraordinary aura strode into the bank lobby.
Something was about to begin again. Maybe the thrill I'd been waiting for.