Chapter 126: The Torn Page
Knock knock knock.
A series of knocks echoed from the door.
"You are...?" Frank opened the door, puzzled as he looked at the people standing outside.
"You mortgaged the house!?"
Frank slammed the door shut, turning to Stephen with disbelief.
"I had no money left," Stephen admitted plainly.
"Are you insane? You mortgaged the house! Where are we supposed to live now? And the money—where the hell is the money from the mortgage!?" Frank asked in a panic.
"It's gone. All of it," Stephen said.
"You spent all that money? That much cash? What the hell did you even spend it on!?" Frank was in utter shock.
That kind of money… even if Stephen had spent it all on women, he wouldn't have been able to burn through it this fast. How could he possibly have gone through it all so quickly?
"You're unbelievable. You've lost your mind," Frank stared at Stephen in disbelief.
Stephen had pinned all his hopes on magic—a miracle that could heal his hands. Like a drowning man grasping at weeds, he refused to let go of even the slimmest shred of hope. And like a fool, he'd been conned out of nearly all his money.
His obsession with restoring his hands had driven him completely mad—worse than when he had first lost the use of them and was desperately hunting for doctors, surgeries, and experimental procedures. Now, he was chasing myths.
Watching Stephen like this, Frank bitterly regretted ever opening his mouth about magic being real.
If only he'd crushed Stephen's hope from the beginning—told him that Kamar-Taj, magic, miracles—none of it existed. Maybe then they could've kept living happily, with food, drink, and a big house to call home.
But now… Frank couldn't stay with Stephen anymore.
He was sure Stephen would drag him down eventually—take out shady loans, fail to repay them, and then they'd both end up dead in an alley or dumped in a river.
"Maybe I should go find Walter…"
That thought lingered in Frank's mind.
He'd been in contact with Walter for a while now. Walter kept urging him to come make money with him. Frank still didn't fully trust it—but checking things out wouldn't hurt.
As for going back to Chicago… going home…
Frank still felt a deep resistance. He couldn't face the kids. That night haunted him like a bone stuck in his throat.
"Get lost. I don't need you. I'll find Kamar-Taj myself. I'll find real magic!"
"You're just a leech—a parasite. Eating my food, sleeping in my house, spending my money! You're a shameless bum! If it weren't for me, you'd have died in the streets. You're nothing but garbage!"
Stephen exploded as Frank prepared to leave.
"Goodbye. As a friend, I'll say this one last time: face reality. There is no magic, no miracles. Kamar-Taj doesn't exist."
Frank wasn't angry—he simply looked at Stephen one last time, offered his parting words, and walked out the door.
"GET OUT!"
Stephen hurled a bottle of liquor at the door. It shattered, alcohol spilling across the floor.
"Ha… hahahaha…"
Stephen leaned heavily on the table, breathing hard.
"Magic is real. My hands will be healed," he muttered, staring at his trembling fingers.
!?
Stephen suddenly looked up—his eyes wide.
The flames in the fireplace… had ignited on their own.
Emerald green fire danced unnaturally in the hearth.
Stephen's face froze in shock. He stepped forward and knelt before the fire.
Without warning, the flames swelled—green fire filled the entire fireplace.
Terrified, Stephen stumbled backward and fell to the floor.
From within the blaze, a charred and damaged piece of parchment materialized.
A moment later, the flames vanished as suddenly as they had appeared. The room returned to silence—as if nothing had happened. There wasn't even the faintest heat lingering in the air.
Hands trembling, Stephen reached into the fireplace.
The ashes were cold, completely devoid of warmth.
"No… that wasn't a hallucination!"
Snapping out of his daze, Stephen dropped to his knees, frantically digging through the ash.
Soon, he found a hint of yellowed paper beneath the soot. Carefully brushing away the debris, he uncovered a scorched fragment of a page—the very one he had seen in the green fire.
"Demonic Ritual... The Crossroads... The Grave of the Black Cat's Bones…"
Stephen read the text, his whole body shaking with excitement.
After all this time, magic—real magic—had finally appeared before him.
If it meant he could heal his hands, he'd sell his soul to the devil without hesitation.
The page Stephen found was actually a torn fragment from Joseph's diary.
Frank, after reading the diary, had decided it was too dangerous to exist.
If that book got out, it would cause chaos. After all, the world lacked many things—but not desperate people. And a desperate man will do anything.
So Frank tore the diary into pieces and tossed it into the fireplace, thinking he had erased it completely.
But he underestimated magic—or rather, the power of demons.
---
That very night, Stephen drove an old, beat-up secondhand car out to a remote crossroads outside New York.
He sat in the car, eyes glued to his watch, counting the seconds.
When the time came, he got out with a shovel in hand. He looked around cautiously, then walked to the center of the crossroads and began digging a medium-sized hole.
After setting the shovel aside, Stephen returned to the car and retrieved a small metal box.
Clutching it tightly, he walked back to the pit. Opening it, he carefully inspected the contents—his photograph, some unknown bones, old silver coins, and soil taken from a grave. He checked again and again to make sure nothing was missing.
Then, he sealed the box, knelt down, placed it in the hole, and began to bury it.
"It's real… it has to be real. Please work,"
Stephen whispered, hands clenched, eyes closed in prayer.
"Were you looking for me, darling?"
A mocking voice echoed behind him.
!!
Stephen's entire body stiffened. He opened his eyes wide—but didn't turn around immediately.
He swallowed hard, bracing himself. Only after gathering all his courage did he slowly turn around.
When he saw what was behind him, his pupils constricted in terror.