Reinhard approached Rivington steadily, each step crushed the air itself.
He stopped before Rivington and seized his face by the jaw, fingers digging into bone. The moment he touched him, Rivington's lungs screamed. It felt like drowning on dry land, his chest refusing to rise, his heart hammering in blind panic.
This aura…It was suffocating...and... absolute.
Rivington groaned, pain tearing through him as blood dripped freely from his face and the dagger wound in his thigh, pooling on the cold stone floor.
"Wh… who are you people…?" he rasped, his voice breaking.
Reinhard did not answer, he didn't twitch, not a breath out of place. His eyes were empty, so empty it was worse than rage.
He released Rivington's jaw and stepped back, the pressure easing just enough for him to gasp. Turning away, Reinhard reached for a porcelain cup of tea, lifting it with unsettling calm. He stirred it slowly, the faint clink of the spoon echoing through the room.
"I heard you were looking for me," Reinhard said casually, not even glancing back. "What do you want?"
Rivington swallowed blood and pain.
"I'm… looking for a healer," he forced out. "A boy, he's dying. Please… save him."
"Liar." The word was soft. Deadly.
Before Rivington could react, the green-hooded man lunged forward and drove his fist into Rivington's face.
CRACK.
Blood sprayed, Rivington cried out, vision exploding into stars.
Reinhard continued stirring his tea, unbothered.
"I'll ask again," he said, tone unchanged. "What do you want… and who sent you?"
Rivington's body trembled violently. Every instinct screamed that one wrong word would end him. But he had nothing left to give, no lies, no secrets.
"I'm telling you the truth," he whispered hoarsely. "Please… believe me."
The spoon stopped.
Reinhard finally turned, his gaze fell on Rivington, slow, dissecting, merciless. He searched past the blood, past the pain, straight into the man's soul.
There was no deception, only desperation. Reinhard narrowed his eyes. Very few knew his name, fewer still lived after speaking it.
"And yet," he said quietly, "you called me by it."
The room grew colder. "How do you know my name?"
Rivington's breath came in ragged gasps. Darkness crept into the corners of his vision. Still, he forced the words out.
"The boy…" he whispered. "He kept saying it. Over and over… like he was afraid to forget."
Reinhard stiffened.
For the first time.... his composure cracked.
"What," he demanded, stepping forward in an instant, aura flaring violently, "is his name?"
Rivington's lips trembled. His voice was barely more than breath.
"Ethan…"
A cough. Blood spilled.
"Ethan Cole."
The cup slipped from Reinhard's hand.
It shattered against the floor.
"Where is he right now?" Reinhard demanded, his voice tight, restrained, yet carrying an edge sharp enough to draw blood. "How did he get here?"
No answer came.
Only then did Reinhard realize, he had been speaking to himself.
Rivington's head hung limply to one side, blood matting his hair and streaking down his face. His body swayed faintly, suspended by the rope binding his wrists above him. He had already passed out, consciousness slipping away long before the questions ended.
"…Tsk."
With a flick of Reinhard's fingers, the rope loosened and dropped. Rivington collapsed, but before his body struck the ground, a soft green glow wrapped around him, lowering him gently as though unseen hands refused to let him fall.
Reinhard knelt beside him.
The air pulsed.
Flesh knitted, torn muscle reformed, blood loss reversed. Even the faint, faltering rhythm of Rivington's heart was forcibly stabilized, dragged back from the edge of death.
Moments later, the glow faded, silence returned.
Rivington stirred.
His eyelids fluttered open, vision spinning as pain dulled into a deep, bone-heavy ache. He tried to move, then froze.
"Where…" his throat felt dry, voice hoarse. "Where… are my—"
He stopped, coughing weakly, dizziness crashing over him in waves. Weeks of desperation, fear, and relentless searching had hollowed him out.
"Oh? You're awake already." Reinhard sat calmly near the table, a cup resting in his hand. Beside him stood the green-hooded man, unmoving, watching Rivington like a hawk.
"Good. That saves us time."
Rivington pushed himself up slightly, blinking. "…Alive?"
"For now," Reinhard replied, setting the cup aside. "If you still have the strength to walk, then we're leaving immediately."
Rivington frowned. "Leaving…?"
"We're wasting time," Reinhard said sharply. "We have to save Ethan."
The name hit Rivington like a hammer.
"…You know Ethan?" he asked, eyes widening. The shock in his voice was impossible to hide. Reinhard had spoken the name far too naturally, far too casually.
"No time for questions," Reinhard replied, already turning away. "I'll explain as we go."
*****
They moved under the cover of night.
The city above was restless, patrols flooding the streets, soldiers stationed at every major crossing, their armor glinting faintly beneath torchlight.
Orders were being barked, boots striking stone in tight formation.
"They're searching for him," Rivington muttered as they slipped past another patrol.
"I know," Reinhard said. "That's why we don't stop."
They descended deeper, past sealed passages, forgotten corridors, and finally into the underground basement hidden beneath Gondolin itself.
As they walked, Rivington spoke. He told Reinhard everything, how he met Ethan, how the boy appeared suddenly, carrying pain far too heavy for his age.
How Zane, Ethan's father, had saved Rivington's life three times over, pulling him back from death when no one else would.
"I owed him," Rivington said quietly. "When Almsworth fell… when Zane and Freya died… I couldn't abandon Ethan. Not after everything."
His voice trembled as he continued, explaining how he met Almsworth's doom, how Ethan was torn from his home and somehow ended up in Gondolin, broken and alone.
Reinhard listened without interruption. Then, after a long silence, he finally spoke.
"The first time I met Ethan…" Reinhard's voice lowered, stripped of its usual calm. "He was already lifeless."
Rivington stopped walking.
"…What?"
"I found him lying cold," Reinhard continued, eyes fixed ahead. "No breath. No pulse. His mana was shattered—like something had forcefully torn it apart and left the body behind."
Rivington clenched his fists.
"I treated him," Reinhard said. "Not because I believed he would live… but because something about him refused to stay dead."
He paused before the heavy stone door at the end of the corridor.
"When his heart began to beat again," Reinhard added quietly, "I realized this boy does not follow the rules of this world."
The door slowly creaked open, darkness spilling out from within.
Reinhard stepped forward.
"And now," he said, voice cold and resolute, "we see whether fate intends to take him again."
*****
They slipped inside just in time, the stone door sealing behind them with a dull, muffled thud, no raised alarms, no footsteps giving chase.
Reinhard wasted no time.
He knelt beside Ethan and emptied his bag onto the cold stone floor. Vials clinked softly. Runes etched into metallic tools shimmered faintly before dimming. Scrolls unfurled on their own, stopping as if restrained by unseen hands.
Then Reinhard froze.
His gaze locked onto Ethan's right hand.
"…The binding relic," he muttered.
It was gone. The absence alone felt loud, like a scream trapped in silence.
"I see," Reinhard said slowly, dread creeping into his voice. "No wonder he's deteriorating this fast."
Rivington swallowed. "What does that mean?"
Reinhard placed two fingers against Ethan's wrist, then his chest. The air around them trembled, subtle, but wrong.
"His mana," Reinhard said. "It's overwhelming. Far beyond what a human body, especially a child's, should be able to contain." He exhaled sharply. "Worse… it resists external interference."
"…Resists?" Rivington echoed.
"Yes," Reinhard replied grimly. "Any foreign mana trying to heal him is rejected. If I attempt restoration now, his mana will surge out of control." His eyes darkened. "And when that happens… his body won't survive it."
Rivington clenched his jaw. "That's too much. That kind of mana… even seasoned mages...."
"..... would die," Reinhard finished. "Yet he's still breathing."
Silence stretched.
"…Is there a way?" Rivington asked at last, voice tight. "Any way at all to help him?"
Reinhard's fingers slowly curled.
"The ancient binding relic has already broken twice," he said. "Which means Ethan's mana has surpassed its limit." He looked up. "What we need now is something far stronger."
He reached into his bag. The moment he pulled it out, the air changed.
A small black canister rested in his palm, its surface slick, almost organic, faint veins pulsing beneath it. The stench hit instantly.
Rot. Iron. Burnt flesh.
Rivington recoiled, gagging as he covered his nose. "What—what is that?" he demanded, eyes watering.
Reinhard didn't look at him.
"A demon crystal," he said calmly. "Forged from demon flesh and blood. A forbidden artifact."
Rivington's heart dropped.
"…You're insane," he whispered. Then louder... angrier, "You want to use a forbidden item on him?! On a child?!"
Reinhard finally turned, eyes cold and unyielding.
"Do you want him saved," he asked flatly, "or buried?"
The words cut deep.
Rivington searched desperately for another answer, another solution, but his mind came up empty. Ethan's breathing was growing shallower by the second, his chest barely rising.
"…Damn it," Rivington muttered.
After a long pause, he looked away. "…Will there be side effects?"
Reinhard stared at the crystal, its dark pulse reflecting faintly in his eyes.
"Of course," he said quietly. "Nothing that suppresses power like this comes without a price."
He closed his fingers around the canister.
"I only hope," Reinhard added, voice barely above a whisper, "that the price won't be paid by the boy's future."
Reinhard fell silent.
The seconds dragged, thick and suffocating, as though the basement itself was holding its breath. His gaze never left Ethan, but the question hung between them, unspoken, heavy.
Finally—
Rivington exhaled sharply. "Tch… just do it." His fists clenched. "It's not like I have a choice. Saving the boy comes first."
Reinhard gave a slow nod.
Without another word, he knelt and took the black canister in both hands. The moment he cracked it open, the stench deepened, dense, nauseating, alive. Inside lay a slab of thick, tar-like flesh.
He crushed it. The sound was wet.
Dark residue bled into his palm as he ground it into fine powder, then poured water over it. The mixture turned into a swirling black liquid, thick as ink, pulsing faintly as if it resisted dissolution.
Rivington's stomach twisted.
Reinhard lifted Ethan's head, pried his mouth open, and poured the liquid in.
Not a drop spilled.
The moment Ethan swallowed, Reinhard stepped back, fast.
Rivington's eyes narrowed. "…Why are you retreating?"
Reinhard wiped his hands slowly, exhaling through his teeth.
"…Because," he said, "this is the first time I've ever used this medicine."
"What?" Rivington snapped. Rage flared instantly. He slammed his palm against the stone wall. "You let me agree to this knowing that?! Damn it, Reinhard, this is bad. This is really bad."
Before Reinhard could respond...
Ethan's fingers twitched.
Both men froze.
A second tremor followed. Then another.
Ethan's body jerked violently, his arms rising into the air as if pulled by invisible strings. His back arched, veins darkening beneath his skin.
Then— "AHHHHHH!"
The scream tore through the basement.
It was raw, shredded, filled with agony so intense it made Rivington's blood run cold, like the sound of someone being torn apart from the inside.