Outside the space where Zamel's awareness currently resided, three people stood quietly, patiently waiting.
The silence in the room was deafening, but none of the three had any interest in breaking the tranquility.
Until footsteps rang out, disturbing the peace.
A man clad in darkness approached the Patriarch's side. Without a word, he stopped beside him, seemingly waiting for a response. The dark smoke enveloping him gradually faded.
Finally, the Patriarch spoke, his deep, cold voice filling the room.
"Is it done?" he asked, his gaze fixed on the boy whose consciousness was currently beyond this world, not sparing the man beside him a glance.
Darius replied without hesitation. "Yes, milord. Everything is running smoothly. There were no issues with the magic circles we placed around the area. The concealment works perfectly, and the alarms we set throughout the vicinity have not detected any signs of life—from the smallest insect to the largest beast or even our own people. I even scouted the surroundings myself to ensure it."
His words carried absolute certainty.
"Good." The patriarch spoke, his voice showing nothing except coldness.
Then, he stood once again, speaking no further words.
But instead of silence filling the room once more, another voice broke through—this time, it was Alaric.
"Are you sure about this? That the boy will not fail, despite the mark you branded on his soul—the one you claimed would aid his growth?" He addressed his father, his tone as blank as the Patriarch's voice was cold.
"Yes, I'm certain it will work." The Patriarch responded, not sparing his son a glance.
"Oh? And where does this confidence come from? That unknown thing over there? You place your full faith in that thing's words, despite knowing that monster cannot be trusted." Alaric's voice dripped with disgust.
This time, the figure in white robes spoke.
"Please, Lord Alaric, refer to me as a human. My work may seem unethical in your eyes, given your position as a member of the Inquisition, but I assure you—the results will far outweigh the risks and dangers of my research." A professional, womanly voice answered Alaric's accusations.
"And if you're genuinely worried about that boy's well-being, I can confidently say there's at least an eighty percent chance of success—according to the experiments with live subjects that your father and I directed.
Of course, that remaining twenty percent chance of failure is somewhat concerning, but I am proud to say that our results are quite satisfactory. After all, any true researcher knows that in our field, a one-hundred percent guarantee simply does not exist. Every experiment carries a risk of failure."
She continued speaking, completely unbothered by her own words.
"Right now, we must put our whole faith in the boy. At the end of the day, there exist many factors for success, and one of them is his own capability," she said, finishing her words.
"Then for your own sake, you'd better pray to whatever disgusting god you worship—because if this fails, I will personally judge and execute you under the divine law of my god."
Alaric's normally blank voice now burned with ferocity.
"Then let us hope he succeeds, then. After all, dying by your hands is not something I look forward to. I'd rather have my soul be eaten by a Daemon than be punished by that two-faced angel you serve."
She snapped back, unafraid of the threat.
Alaric was about to say something until the Patriarch's voice rang throughout the room.
"Enough! Cease this childish squabble at once. If you wish to settle your differences, I will allow it—but not now."
For the first time, the Patriarch shouted, letting everyone know of his growing anger.
He didn't say another word but glanced toward Alaric, likely knowing he would not back down, before turning his attention to the boy once again.
The two, especially Alaric, got the signal—lest they wish to incur the Patriarch's wrath.
Finally, the room was once again plunged into silence.
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Zamel, oblivious to the tense exchanges in the room where his body lay, focused entirely on the overwhelming surge of mana flowing into him.
His teeth clenched as agony consumed every fiber of his being. His body burned as though seared by an unseen fire, while his soul suffered the relentless assault of a thousand piercing needles, each one bringing forth unbearable torment.
Amidst the suffering, he sensed something forming deep within him—a sphere, hard and smooth, growing at the very core of his existence. His mind latched onto it, drawn to the swirling force within. As he peered deeper, he saw something moving in an endless spiral—a black mark, its design intricate and incomprehensible. The more he focused, the more it seemed to shift, twisting as though it were alive, waiting for him to decipher its meaning.
His mind recoiled as a sudden surge of mana flooded his body, raw and unrelenting. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to concentrate, channeling the energy toward the place where his core was beginning to take shape. He had to endure. He had to take control.
Unbeknownst to him, the black mark embedded within the swirling sphere began to glow—an eerie, inky blackness that pulsed with an unsettling light.
Then, it moved.
Like a living entity, the mark twisted and rotated, its intricate patterns shifting faster and faster. Tendrils of darkness sprouted from its edges, snaking inward and rooting themselves deep into his forming core, as if it sought to bind itself permanently to his very essence—never to be removed, never to be undone.
Zamel continued to absorb and direct the torrent of mana rushing into him, oblivious to the transformation taking place within his core. His only focus was survival—to endure the overwhelming flood threatening to consume him. He didn't know what would happen if he lost control, nor did he wish to find out.
Time stretched endlessly as his core finally solidified, yet the flow of mana did not cease. It surged into him with relentless intensity, filling him beyond his limits. He felt bloated, his very being stretched taut as if he might burst. The pressure swelled within him, a crushing weight that made him long to expel the excess energy. Yet, despite the discomfort, he could not stop.
He drank and drank, like a man who had wandered the desert for eternity, unable to quench his thirst—driven by an insatiable hunger he did not understand.
Then, he heard it—a sharp, deafening crack, like glass shattering in his ears. Panic surged through him as he immediately turned his focus toward his core.
What he saw made his breath hitch.
It was supposed to be a pristine white orb, radiant like a miniature sun, casting divine light into the abyss. Instead, what lay before him was a grotesque, pulsating sphere—its surface marred with red, throbbing veins that spread like a parasite. The mark he had seen earlier had not disappeared; it swirled hungrily, a black void consuming everything within its grasp, warping the core beyond recognition.
Cracks stretched across the surface, like a delicate shell on the verge of collapse. Yet, disturbingly, the damage did not remain. The core repaired itself rapidly, knitting together as if it refused to break. But its hunger was endless. The more mana it devoured, the more fractures reappeared, only to be healed again—an endless cycle of destruction and restoration, driven by its insatiable greed.
Zamel couldn't fully comprehend what was happening, but after witnessing the strange, ceaseless cycle within his core, a wild and dangerous idea sparked in his mind.
Without hesitation, he acted.
He turned his focus to the mana still surging into him, and instead of slowing its flow, he did the opposite—he pulled. Harder. More. As much as he could possibly grasp, he dragged all the surrounding mana toward himself and forced it into his core.
The already unbearable torment escalated to an entirely new level. An indescribable anguish spread through his entire being, as if his very essence were being torn apart and reforged at the same time. His body convulsed, his mind teetered on the edge of oblivion, yet he refused to stop.
If his core was greedy, then he would overfeed it. Until it either shattered completely or transformed into something even greater.
He persisted, enduring the torment for what felt like an eternity. The once-unbearable pain gradually dulled into a numbing ache, yet his core remained insatiable. The cycle continued—his core cracked and mended, over and over again—while Zamel fought to maintain his focus.
Both he and his core were being tempered, reforged through relentless suffering, neither willing to break.
An unknown amount of time passed until, finally, he felt it.
The flow of mana had ceased. His core, once ravenous, was now satisfied. The endless cycle of shattering and mending had stopped. A heavy sigh escaped him as the tension in his body eased. He had endured. He had survived.
With a deep breath, he opened his eyes once more, finding himself back in the familiar, vast emptiness of the blank space around him.
He tried to stand, but his body collapsed beneath him.
Every attempt to move felt futile—his limbs were heavy, as if mountains had been chained to them. No matter how much effort he mustered, his body refused to obey.
He gave up.
There was no panic, no frustration. His mind was too drained to care. Instead, he simply lay there, surrendering to the exhaustion consuming him.
A deep weariness settled into his bones, and his vision blurred as drowsiness pulled at him like an irresistible tide.
Yet, just as he was about to let go and fall into unconsciousness, something appeared.
Floating above him, shimmering in the void, was something.
And the sight of it was enough to keep him awake.
Zamel's gaze locked onto the smooth, white marble floating before him.
Glowing words were etched into its surface, their light pulsing gently as if alive.
He read them once.
Then again.
And as the meaning settled in, a genuine, unrestrained smile stretched across his weary face.
Even as exhaustion threatened to pull him under, he fought to stay awake—just to confirm it one more time.
Path of Power - Beastmaster
[Adds - +2 points to all status]
[Health Points] 20/120
[Mana Points] 160/160
Might - 10 + 2 = 12
Resilience - 10 + 2 = 12
Dexterity - 10 + 2 = 12
Wisdom - 8 + 2 = 10
Willpower - 12 + 2 = 14
Spirit - 15 + 1 = 16
It was real.
He had done it.
With nothing else to do, he let out a slow breath and closed his eyes, as he let the sweet embrace of sleep envelop his whole being.
<----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------->
The Patriarch moved swiftly, catching his grandson just before he hit the ground. Holding him carefully, he closed his eyes and focused his mind, diving into Zamel's body to inspect his core.
As his awareness reached its destination, he took in the grotesque sight—the pulsating core, red veins spreading and contracting, the dark mark swirling endlessly in its center.
Instead of shock or concern, a slow smile crept across his usually cold face. Then, a deep, low laughter rumbled from him, filling the room with satisfaction.
"He succeeded," he declared loud enough for all to hear. "And it was perfect."
"Perfect?" The woman in white robes asked, genuine shock in her voice.
Ignoring her, the Patriarch turned to the others, his voice carrying absolute authority.
"Alaric, Darius. You know what to do—erase this place without leaving a trace. We cannot afford any evidence. As for you," he turned to the woman, "you'll return with me to the estate. You will alter the boy's memories, replacing what he saw here and during his awakening with something else."
The pressure in his voice left no room for argument. Without another word, he turned and stepped toward the teleportation circle, carrying Zamel in his arms. His expression was as cold as winter, yet his eyes burned with unwavering determination.