283 Little Monkey

Clank clank...

The sound of the machine whirring and clanking echoed in the carriage. The faintly metallic smell of blood and the sickly-sweet smell of disinfectant permeated the air.

Clad in black, Dumby slipped out of the bone collection center and bolted the iron doors with well-practiced ease.

It was already close to 10pm and pitch black outside.

It took out a sixth grade textbook of of his robes and started reading it using the light of the Soul Flames in its eyes.

Working in the slaughterhouse was a repetitive chore. Every few hours, one had to do the same thing over and over again, absorbing Soul Flames from the deathly remains sent there.

Soul Flames weren't souls; they were completely unrelated.

Technically, Soul Flames were the dying vestiges of a soul.