Chapter 23

"Clap, clap, clap."

Rhythmic applause echoed. Greta turned her head and saw the necromancer already leaning his staff to one side, smiling and clapping. After a few claps, he extended his hand to Greta, his tone more enthusiastic than before:

"I thought you were just a good old soul, but I didn't expect you to be a cut-up too! Hahaha, dear friend, your insights are truly impressive...

—By the way, I forgot to introduce myself. I'm Andrew Lynn, a necromancer from the Black Crow Marsh. And you?

Ah, right, would you like something to drink? Mint water? Or honey water? Troca found a beehive a few days ago. I tell you, he might have fought, but he managed to drive away the brown bear that was stealing the honey..."

His speech was rapid, and his topics jumped quickly, one after another, following his associations. It seemed like a case of flight of ideas. This guy might need to see a psychiatrist—

If there were psychiatrists in this world.

Greta made a mental note. His expression unchanged, he smiled and replied:

"I'm Greta, Greta Nordmark, a local. My profession is still uncertain. I'll have some mint water. Do you have anything to eat? I'm starving from getting up in the middle of the night!"

"Troca!"

The necromancer Andrew shouted loudly. The golden skeleton clattered away, and the necromancer, after washing his hands, turned enthusiastically:

"Hey, so what do you think? Would it be better to control the skeleton soldiers with their own bones?"

"I think your skeletons are already very obedient," Greta replied sincerely.

He had been watching the golden skeleton. Unlike the idle, table-lounging black cat, the skeleton had been busy since it entered. Opening cabinets, fetching trays, tea sets, pouring water, and getting food...

It even flipped a stone slab with a "clack," and flames rose, roasting pancakes warmly.

If it weren't a skeleton, he would have believed it was a robot.

Clearly, this answer did not satisfy the necromancer Andrew. He gestured and described how weak his skeletons were (Greta: Not really, they are much stronger than me), and then looked at Greta expectantly, waiting for his answer.

"…I don't know…"

Greta struggled to hold back this response. The question was just too difficult. You ask me, I'll ask your skeleton.

He tried to force a smile:

"I think the skeletons might not know which bones are theirs?"

"Right, right, right!" The man nodded vigorously:

"These bones are just put together, so they can't be relied upon. —So, how do you tell which bones belong to whom?"

Greta: "…"

Should I have accepted the invitation? This necromancer, though seemingly harmless, seems a bit off...

Greta looked around, a bit flustered.

How do you tell which bones belong to whom? He had methods, like DNA testing. Test each bone, categorize them by the results, and it would be fast, accurate, and cost-effective...

But this is a different world. He would need the conditions to do it.

There were also less accurate methods. For example, by the time the epiphyses fuse, you can determine the age of the bone's owner and separate them accordingly.

For instance, the head of the radius has fused, but the lower epiphysis has not; while the hip bone's epiphyses are all fused.

The head of the radius fuses between 15-17 years, and the lower epiphysis fuses between 16-18 years. Considering this, the owner is likely between 16-17 years old. The hip bone fuses between 20-25 years, so the owner must be over 20...

These two bones definitely belong to different people.

—However, observing the epiphyseal lines requires X-rays.

This world doesn't have them.

Greta, the former emergency room doctor, once again, felt like crying on the ground...

Who can get me an X-ray machine?

If that's not possible, some radium ore, and I can find someone to help me...

The necromancer Andrew was still looking at him expectantly. His face was sallow, his hair greasy, clearly not caring about personal hygiene. As for his physique, he looked like a reed even without the wind.

If he were any thinner, he could be a brother to his skeletons.

The golden skeleton held a tray with water jugs, porcelain plates, cups, and glass jars, all containing mint water, white bread, and honey. It stood by the cabinet, chest out, head up, arms extended, in a standard posture, but didn't come over.

Is this a no-snack, no-dessert kind of thing?

Greta mentally criticized the necromancer in front of him. Given the situation, he could only rack his brain—no, search his brain for the forensic medicine textbook and try to come up with something substantial:

"Actually... the age of bones can be determined. For example, the skull, teeth are a clear indicator..."

Greta stopped, looking around for a skull to use for a live demonstration. Unfortunately, although this was the necromancer's residence, bones weren't everywhere.

At least, Greta looked around and only saw one.

The one on the golden skeleton's head.

So, the skeleton, under his intense gaze, clattered over.

It first put down the tray, poured the mint water, and placed the snack plate, then—removed its own head, held it with both hands, and presented it to Greta.

The dark eye sockets lifted, the two soul fires in them staring at Greta.

Greta: "…"

What is this?

What do you mean by this?

Are you asking me to hold a pancake in one hand, smear it with honey, and hold a skull in the other to give you a lesson?

Even if surgeons are generally not picky and can face blood and gore, this is too rough!

He leaned back, avoiding the skull thrust under his nose. He reached across the table, grabbed a fork from the necromancer, and struck the skull hard:

"Open your mouth!"

The golden skeleton's jaw opened at the command. Greta raised the necromancer's fork, pointing at the dark, uneven teeth, and explained one by one:

"The older the person, the more worn the teeth. See, the cusps are worn down, and the molars are significantly worn, exposing the dentin...

Tsk, tsk, tsk, tsk, he must have been in a lot of pain in life.

If the cusps are only slightly worn or not worn at all, the person would be younger..."

As he spoke, the necromancer Andrew leaned in, examining each tooth. His body leaned forward, his head lowered, almost burying himself in the skeleton's mouth. Halfway through, he suddenly came to his senses and waved his hand at the table:

"Please, go ahead—"

Greta didn't hesitate, demonstrating the speed of an emergency room doctor on night duty. He grabbed a pancake with his left hand, poured honey with his right, and stuffed it into his mouth. The first bite, his tongue touched the palate, and he couldn't help but lightly smack his lips.

Hmm, the pancakes were tender and full, the honey sweet, and the mint water refreshing. Although the golden skeleton's pancake-making skills didn't match those of a master chef from his previous life, they were good enough for a hungry night.

This is what humans should eat!

I don't want to eat black bread every day!

His mood improved, and his lecture became more detailed:

"Oh, the wear on the teeth is related not only to age but also to the owner's diet and economic status. For example, someone who often eats black bread will have more worn teeth than someone who eats white bread. Besides teeth, the pelvis can also be used to determine age... the pelvis..."