The cabin resembled a hastily erected shed more than a proper dwelling. Its only redeeming quality was how seamlessly it blended with nature—though to Xize, this felt like an insult to the pristine wilderness surrounding it. Aside from a crude bed, the space was dominated by an alchemy table cluttered with vials of monster blood and potions glowing with eerie light.
The young man had left the castle alone after overhearing a conversation yesterday. Since Balo and Debbie chose to keep secrets, he decided to seek answers himself.
Claude stood with his back to the door, glass vials jingling in the leather pouch at his waist as he worked. Above him, a magical lamp hung within a hexagram formation, six fingernail-sized crystals embedded at its nodes emitting a gentle, non-dazzling radiance.
Even hearing the door open, the old potion master didn't turn around, completely absorbed in his experiment. He carefully tilted a violet potion from a crystal vial into a blue container held in his left hand.
*Boom—*
The moment the liquids met, they erupted in a violent reaction. Splashing droplets corroded his left hand, flesh melting away to reveal stark white bone. Yet the elder showed no change in expression, calmly applying an emerald potion to the injury. The tissue immediately began regenerating at visible speed.
On this continent, potion masters commanded both fear and respect. Though classified as mages, their constant dealings with dangerous reagents made them notoriously unpredictable. Rumors often circulated about entire towns wiped out by a single failed experiment. Yet they were also miracle workers, capable of solving seemingly incurable ailments.
Xize recalled that morning six months ago. Fresh from escaping his parents' supervision, he'd been stopped by this white-bearded elder in the marketplace. After studying him intently, the old man suddenly declared, "You carry a vile sickness."
Anyone would be angered by such an unsolicited diagnosis. The teenager glared back, nearly summoning his contracted beast to teach the blunt-speaking elder a lesson—had he not been mindful of the crowded street.
Just as he was about to erupt, Claude shook his head and amended, "No, you're not ill." Then he turned and left, an inexplicable hint of regret in his eyes.
The next day, flamegrass and white phosphorus powder somehow found their way into the old potion master's concoctions.
"You are not ill," Claude stated flatly, observing the uninvited youth.
"But I am," Xize insisted, frowning in frustration. Never had he imagined he'd need to desperately prove his own affliction. "Master, you must have noticed something. As an esteemed elder, I beg for your assistance."
"This transcends mere illness," Claude finally said after a long pause.
"Are you saying it's fate?" the youth ventured.
The old man's eyes sharpened. "Precisely. This is your destiny."
Xize pressed his lips together stubbornly. "Shouldn't we still try to change it? Wouldn't it be a waste for the empire's blooming youth to wither away?"
Though looking perplexed, Claude gestured for the boy to approach. Bony fingers rested on Xize's shoulder as a thread of magical power probed his meridians. The elder suddenly frowned. "A curse! Who would place such malicious magic upon a child?"
"Is curse magic still considered magic?" Xize asked, remembering yesterday's conversation.
"Indeed, curse magic. Most mages today study elemental magic, unaware that beyond the seven elements exists mental magic. Curses belong to its dark branch." Claude's expression turned grave. "In ancient times, dark mages proposed the theory of magic's shadow aspect. Such devastating dark spells were once prevalent, until their terrifying power led to their sealing. I never thought to see them resurface now."
He pondered briefly before adding, "There shouldn't be any Archmages left on the continent, and even Grand Mages shouldn't be capable of casting such powerful curses."
"Perhaps a reclusive Archmage?" Xize suggested.
"Even if one existed, why would they bother cursing you?" Claude shot him a disdainful look.
"Then do Grand Mages have reason to curse me?"
The old man froze, then slowly nodded. "A fair point." His expression grew solemn. "In that case, there's only one possibility..."
"This is a curse cast by the Archmage at the cost of his own life," Claude declared with unwavering certainty.
A flicker of recognition passed through Xize's eyes—this aligned perfectly with his parents' final words before their passing.
"Yet judging by the curse's corrosive pace, you should have been drained of life long ago." Claude's bony fingers tapped lightly on the table, his murky eyes fixed on the dark patterns swirling around the young boy.
"Drained?" A chill shot up Xize's spine, his fingers unconsciously digging into his palms.
"When I last saw you, the curse was temporarily suppressed, yet it continued to feed on your vitality to grow stronger." Before Claude finished speaking, Xize already felt his organs twisting into knots.
"Remove your shirt," the old man commanded abruptly.
While the boy stood frozen, the hoarse voice repeated with impatience: "Now."
Gritting his teeth, Xize untied his garment, letting the coarse cloth slide to the floor. If it meant being rid of this bone-deep affliction, what did it matter if this old monster examined his body?
When the cold gaze swept across his back, the boy finally couldn't suppress a trembling protest: "I'm only fourteen!"
This old bastard was clearly a wolf in healer's clothing! Xize screamed internally. Why hadn't Fantacy burst through the door? Had he already been eliminated? Was he destined to suffer this humiliation before the curse even consumed him—
"What does age have to do with treatment?" Claude snorted derisively. "If you weren't still a fledgling, do you think I'd tolerate your backtalk?"
Xize closed his eyes, swallowing the bitterness in his throat as two hot tears traced paths over his cheekbones. When warm breath ghosted across the nape of his neck, he curled his toes in despair.
But the expected agony never came. Turning, he found the old man's age-spotted face mere inches away, his clouded eyes now blazing with unusual intensity.
"Enough." Claude abruptly retreated, his expression returning to its previous impassivity.
That was it? Xize blankly touched his back, when sudden understanding dawned—had all those filthy suspicions been just his own imagination?
"The curse isn't without countermeasures," the old man mused, stroking his beard.
Just as hope ignited in the boy's eyes, the other's tone shifted sharply: "But why should I save you?"
Xize silently studied him for a long moment before suddenly turning toward the wooden door. Just as his fingers touched the latch, the expected urgent command indeed came from behind.
Success! The boy secretly sighed in relief. The old fiend couldn't resist the mystery of the curse after all.
"Hmm?" He turned back with perfectly measured confusion—this single syllable left room for questioning while maintaining noble dignity, a performance worthy of theatrical acclaim.
"Take your rags with you." Claude kicked the discarded garment aside.
Clutching his collar, Xize stepped out of the cabin and complained to the waiting guard: "Why didn't you come in earlier? That old monster clearly had ill intentions!"
"Master Claude is a Magister," Fantacy emerged from the shadows.
A Magister? Xize inwardly gasped. The equivalent of a Nobel laureate from that other world actually possessing special forces-level capabilities defied all logic.
"Does being a Magister mean he can do whatever he wants?"
"Essentially, yes," the guard nodded.
Across the entire continent, the mage's robe symbolized privilege. This honor stemmed from one-in-ten-thousand talent, and even more from world-shattering power. From magic apprentice to Saint Magister, each rank represented an insurmountable chasm. And Archmages capable of casting twelfth-level forbidden spells were walking natural disasters.
"Fewer than ten Magisters remain on the continent," Fantacy added gravely. "And Claude is the only one who also mastered magical pharmacology. Moreover..." The family crest on his breastplate glowed faintly, "He made a blood oath with your father—mutual non-aggression."
"But he severely wounded my dignity!" Xize finally managed after a long pause.
"Mental assault?" Fantacy's face darkened instantly.
Overwhelming regret washed over him. How could he have let the young master face such an entity alone? In that split second, the guard already spat essence blood to activate a secret art, transforming into a crimson blur that tore through the night with the boy in his arms.
Buffeted by howling winds, Xize stared at the rapidly receding stars and moon, utterly bewildered.
What in the world is going on?
The surge of energy erupting from Fantasia swept through the castle like a storm. Before his feet even touched the ground, Robert had already intercepted him in the courtyard with twelve shadow guards. Robert's eyes narrowed sharply as he recognized the intruder—the elusive commander of the Shadow Guard, appearing in such a state.
"Activate the highest alert," Fantasia commanded, but Robert was already moving. He tore the griffin-bone whistle from his neck, its piercing shriek cutting through the night. Magical crystal lamps flared to life across the castle, and the clatter of armored footsteps echoed from every direction.
Barlow materialized from the shadows of the colonnade, his expression hardening as he took in the lingering arcane glow around Fantasia. "Explain."
"The young master has been targeted by Claude's mental sorcery," Fantasia replied, dropping to one knee, his knuckles white with tension.
As Xize opened his mouth to protest, Barlow's fingers flicked, casting a Silence spell that sealed the boy's lips. Golden threads of magic wove around Xize like a spider's web, but as they probed his mind, they met an impenetrable barrier. Barlow's face darkened—a magical seal capable of evading his detection could only be rooted deep within the soul's reflection.
Fantasia melted back into the shadows, the residual arcane energy burning through his veins. Approaching the woodland cabin, his steps fell silently between the rustling leaves. Through the window, he saw Claude hunched over a bubbling beaker of violet liquid.
In a flash, Fantasia struck. His poisoned dagger carved twelve afterimages through the air, aimed straight for Claude's neck. But just as the blade was about to pierce flesh, the amber pendant on Claude's chest shattered. An earthen shield erupted, scraping against the dagger in a shower of sparks. In that split second, a scroll unfurled, bathing the mage in a holy barrier of light.
"Vermin!" Claude snarled, crushing a crystal vial that scattered stardust across the floor. Thirty-seven ice prisms materialized in the air, unleashing a barrage of frost shards that pierced through Fantasia's fading silhouette and turned the cabin into an icebox.
Hovering above the wreckage, the archmage raised his holly wand. The falling snowflakes froze mid-air, swirling ominously. The moment one brushed against the invisible intruder's cloak, an ice spear shot from the wand's tip, tearing through the night.
The sound of snapping metal and breaking bones echoed as one. Just as a second wave of ice spikes prepared to consume the fallen figure, a wall of wildfire erupted from the earth. Barlow descended through the fiery rain, his eyes blazing with molten fury. "You dare harm my bloodline and strike down my Shadow Guard? Claude… have you grown tired of living?"
High above the sky, two figures stood in tense opposition.
A sinister glow swirled at the tip of Cloud's staff as he spoke, his voice sharp as ice. "So it was you who sent those petty thugs."
Before the words had fully faded, dozens of shadowy runes shot forth like vipers, weaving together into a massive hex array that blotted out the sky. Curses of slowness, dizziness, and weakness hissed through the air.
Barlow's sleeves billowed as a soft golden aura enveloped him. The curses dissolved into smoke the moment they touched the light. "I've always respected your seniority, but I never expected you to stoop to such underhanded schemes!"
"You know perfectly well who's been pulling the strings," Cloud retorted coldly. Without another word, he formed a series of hand seals, ancient incantations flowing from his lips. The earlier curses had been nothing but a feint—the real killing blow was taking shape.
The temperature plummeted. Ice crystals swirled into a vortex among the clouds. Barlow's gaze drifted toward the nearby village of Sprout, hesitation flickering across his brow. Unleashing a forbidden spell here would doom that peaceful settlement to utter destruction.
But how could he simply quell the fury raging in his chest?
"Dare to settle this deep in the mountains?" Barlow's form dissolved into a streak of light as he shot toward the towering peaks.