It was worse than any of them had imagined.
The chamber was alive with tension, thick enough to choke on. In the center of it all, Evan di Sator stood like a tempest barely contained, his youthful fra a stark contrast to the raw authority radiating off him.
His hands glowed with unrelenting mana, the soft blue hue a fragile tether keeping a small, unconscious girl tethered to life. Sweat dripped from his brow as he chugged high-grade mana potions like water, his lips moving nonstop to cast perpetual healing spells over her frail form.
“Information!” he barked, his voice sharp enough to cut stone. “What use is all the money Papa’s gathered over the years if we can’t even monitor the palace properly? I want to know where Rafaye Inkor and Celia Angemoux are right now and what they’re doing!”
The attendants around him flinched but scrambled to respond. One, braver than the others, managed to stamr, “The palace moved the mont the First Prince and the Elven Princess disappeared, sir, but the King and Queen—”
“Useless!” Evan snapped, his eyes flashing dangerously. “Then give sothing—anything! Everything around Lance Inkor or anyone connected to the palace! Blair’s maids, her lady-in-waiting, her physicians—Celia Angemoux must know sothing!”
His frustration crackled like lightning, but his focus never wavered from the girl in his arms.
It was at that mont Bunny Fay entered the chamber, her entrance commanding attention despite her precarious condition. The three parents followed close behind her, but they froze the mont they saw the scene before them.
Two young boys—Matthew Padparadscha and Alan Mossflower—sat slumped in a corner, their faces pale, their eyes haunted. They looked as if they’d been holding their breath for hours, and the mont they saw their parents, it was as though the dam holding back their emotions broke.
“Mom! Dad!” Matthew cried, rushing forward, his arms outstretched.
“Father!” Alan called, his voice trembling as he followed.
The parents caught them instinctively, their relief palpable as they embraced their sons. For a mont, their terror eased, replaced by the familiar warmth of their children’s presence. But the reprieve was brief.
Evan’s sharp eyes flicked toward the door, and the sight of his mother’s blood-soaked figure made him freeze. His gaze zeroed in on the gaping wound in her chest, his expression shifting from anger to alarm in an instant.
“Mama…” he said, his voice trembling despite his best effort to sound calm. “Why is the wound still—”
“It won’t close,” Bunny cut him off, her tone calm but tinged with grim resignation. She didn’t stop moving until she lowered herself carefully onto a chair, her breaths shallow and strained. “It’s feeding on my flesh. I can’t stop it now.”
Evan clenched his jaw, his young face twisted with a mix of helplessness and determination. “Papa still hasn’t returned?”
“Not yet, darling,” Bunny replied, her voice softer now, but no less resolute. She coughed into her hand, the crimson stain left behind a vivid reminder of just how fragile her condition was.
The parents exchanged glances, their earlier relief at reuniting with their children quickly overshadowed by the grim reality unfolding before them.
Here was a boy, barely twelve, who had been forced to shoulder responsibilities far beyond his years. A woman, regal even in ruin, who refused to falter despite her failing body. And a scene so dire that even the most seasoned nobles struggled to process it.
It was clear now: this was no ordinary crisis. This was a battlefield, and they had just stepped into the heart of it.
“Mama, how about you let go?” Evan’s voice trembled slightly, betraying the calm exterior he was trying so hard to maintain. His gaze shifted between Blair’s unconscious form and the gaping, unhealed wound in his mother’s chest. “This is the perfect ti for a loop reset.”
Bunny, pale but unyielding, glanced at her son with weary determination. “Not yet… We need to give your Papa… a bit more… ti…” Her voice was thin, each word dragging out as though weighed down by the pain she refused to show.
Bianca Lumine, having moved closer, began chanting purification magic under her breath, her hands glowing faintly with holy light. Her expression was tight, her focus absolute, but there was a hesitation in her movents. As she worked, her sharp gaze flicked up toward Bunny.
“Corrupted mana,” Bianca said slowly, the words heavy with implication. “You ntioned it earlier. Is this… what I think it is?”
Of course, the descendant of Rouf the Apostle would recognize corrupted mana. It wasn’t sothing you needed a full explanation for, especially not when you were staring directly at an injury like this—a wound that defied healing, pulsing with malevolence. The signs were all there, pointing to one grim possibility.
“It might be,” Bunny admitted, her gaze steady as she t Bianca’s questioning eyes. There was no need for pretense here; the truth was obvious. If she herself couldn’t heal the wound, there was no chance Bianca could.
Bianca’s hands faltered as realization struck. Her magic flickered and faded by the fifth second, her expression shifting from focused determination to grim acceptance.
Bunny reached up and gently patted Bianca’s hand, a subtle but clear gesture of acknowledgnt. “Don’t waste your energy,” she said, her tone quiet but resolute. “This is beyond even you.”
Bianca took a step back, her lips pressing into a thin line as she nodded reluctantly.
“For now, information is what we need,” Bunny continued, her voice firr now despite her obvious exhaustion. She straightened slightly, forcing her body to comply. “I’ll call Nemo inside. The barrier should be strong enough by now.”
Evan let out a long, controlled sigh, the weight of the situation pressing down on him even harder. But when Bunny’s gaze shifted to him, her eyes sharp and expectant, he imdiately straightened, pulling himself together.
“Evan,” Morgan said, her voice carrying a quiet authority, “help explain to everyone what kind of war we’re facing.”
“Yes, master,” Yvain replied.
***
It was an eerie expanse of silence, the underground corridor’s oppressive air broken only by the faint, wet squelch of movent.
On the ground, a grotesque blob of living black substance writhed sluggishly, its form an unsettling ss of vaguely humanoid limbs—arms, legs, and sothing that might have been a spine, if one squinted.
The half-ford torso that protruded from its center pulsed faintly, as though imitating breath, and atop it sat a human head, pale and disturbingly intact, its vacant gaze locked forward.
The scene might have been pitiful if it weren’t so unsettling.
Opposite this abomination stood a man. Burn held himself with the kind of poise that scread unshakable control. His sharp white hair glinted like frost under the weak light, and his golden eyes—unnervingly bright, like molten tal—were fixed on the head.
In his hand, steady as a statue, he gripped a dragon horn sword, its edge gleaming faintly with a dangerous aura that promised finality.
For a mont, neither moved. The blob seed content to fester, and Burn seed content to stare, though what emotion swirled behind his piercing gaze was anyone’s guess.
Finally, the head twitched—ever so slightly—its lips parting to croak out a voice that was more labored sigh than sound.
"You... have a place... to be... Burn…” it said. “Don’t... stall… no more…”
The words gurgled and rasped, as though fighting through tar to escape.
Burn blinked, just once, like a brief pause, his golden eyes still fixed on the head. There was no discernible reaction on his face—no anger, no pity, not even disgust. Just that cold, impenetrable stare.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low and asured, tinged with sothing too distant to be outright mockery but sharp enough to feel like a cut.
“We will et again, Brother,” he said, his tone as steady as the grip on his blade. “Wait for just a mont longer. Then, I’ll know what to do.”
In the next loop.
And with that, he turned on his heel, his movents deliberate, his presence leaving a void in the suffocating silence of the corridor.
Behind him, the blob of black substance pulsed faintly, its head watching him retreat with an expression that could almost be mistaken for a smile—thick black liquid flowing down its eyes like tears.
.
.
.
.
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