I shut my eyes for a moment, breathing heavily, and searched through the list of techniques available to me.
They were considerable, and I instinctively understood what each one could do as well as their limitations.
Ten Shadows.
Star Rage.
Curse Creation.
Missile Fist.
Shrine.
Disaster Flames.
Disaster Plants.
Disaster Water.
Ratio.
Idle Transfiguration.
Curse Tool Manipulation.
Construction.
Anti-Gravity System.
Blood Manipulation and Rot.
Puppet Manipulation.
Cursed Spirit Manipulation.
Immortality.
Cloning.
Auspicious Beast Summon.
Seance.
Black Bird Manipulation.
Photo Manipulation.
Miracle.
Ice Formation.
Blazing Courage.
Stone Hands.
Love Rendezvous.
Curse Energy Discharge.
Copy.
Sky Manipulation.
Heart Catch.
Limitless.
Most of them were leagues beyond what I had been born with. It almost seemed unfair. Then again, I probably would have died a long time ago if I hadn't possessed a defensive technique, no matter how strong my regeneration was.
Disaster Curse, Shrine, Curse Energy Discharge, Star Rage, and Ten Shadows seemed the most devastating offensively—but even those likely weren't enough to defeat a master of soul manipulation within her Domain
I shifted my focus toward the more strategic options: Copy, Idle Transfiguration, and Sky Manipulation.
Idle Transfiguration and Sky Manipulation were the logical choices if I wanted to escape. Yet I doubted I could get far with her Domain still active.
That left Copy as the final option—but it had serious limitations.
I could only wield two additional techniques at a time without overloading my brain. However, I could swap them out for another pair every twenty-four hours. I suspected that those limitations would likely vanish as I improved Copy and my brain adapted to holding multiple techniques.
The second, and by far greater, limitation was the requirement for copying. I either had to fully understand a technique or consume a significant portion of the sorcerer's body—a finger, hand, anything substantial.
I hesitated to finalize the choice.
Choosing Copy meant surrendering to Artisan now and planning my escape from the inside. That path would demand wholesale butchery, unmatched skill, physical power I didn't currently have, and mastery of multiple techniques at a near-savant level.
But what choice did I have?
"Well?" Artisan's words jolted me like cold iron. I hadn't forgotten she was waiting, but I'd dissociated for a moment.
"I've got places to be, Julius," she said. "Fight for your soul or save your friends?"
"Neither," I answered. "I'll come with you willingly, but I will not take the binding vow."
Artisan's brows arched to the edge of her golden hair. "Huh. I wasn't expecting that. Why?"
"Because it's a trap," I said flatly. "You'd never spare them if they truly posed a threat. You'd have someone else on your team do it, leak their weaknesses to their enemies, or find some other underhanded way despite the vow's limitations." My eyes swept the collective faces of the League.
Some of the older Leaguers bristled, but most of them remained impassive. The young team, though, wore their hearts on their sleeves. Artemis in particular looked so furious that I was surprised she hadn't already spoken up.
Artisan smirked. "You're colder than your father. It cost him his life. I suppose your weakness has cost you yours."
I glared at her, fists clenching helplessly.
"You made the wrong choice," she said. "The vow would have made what came next tolerable."
What—
A sharp pain radiated from my neck, and a second later came the snap. My body went limp. A scream tore from my throat as the League surged into action.
Flash led the charge, his body blurring forward—until he and the others stumbled and collapsed, screaming, blood spraying from shattered tibias.
Artisan tsked as she caught me, lifting me into a mockery of a bridal carry. "Well. I did warn you."
She looked to the sky. "George. I think we've had enough."
In an instant, George was beside me, close enough to strangle me on a whim. And I had no doubt he would have if Artisan allowed it.
"Let's go home," she said softly.
The one-eyed sorcerer nodded. "Yes, boss."
Pressure coiled around us, building until the air cracked.
I blinked—and we were standing in a massive Gothic church refitted into a military base.
Platforms hung from the high walls where dozens of sorcerers and enhanced bustled about. The ground floor was divided with artificial walls, the center dominated by a massive arena and several smaller rings where people sparred with all manner of weapons. A medical bay jutted out from a dais, leading into private chambers behind it.
Faces turned to me. Most were blank, some twisted with rage, and a few…with hunger.
Gina approached, flanked by two silent men pushing a gurney. Artisan dumped me onto it, and the guards strapped me down with thick leather belts.
"Thank you for the assistance," Gina said with a bow.
Artisan didn't even glance at her. "Pride cost Lily her life. I'm glad you were smarter."
"What will happen to him?" George asked, his voice hesitant, almost stuttering.
Artisan's smile was sharp. "Don't worry. When Priya and Ade are finished with him, he'll wish Lily had killed him."
George's expression brightened slightly, but only slightly. Artisan turned and walked away. With each step, her body shifted—her hair flushing pink, micro-cuts appearing across her face, her clothes shrinking and reshaping themselves. Even her boots adjusted size. She vanished around a corner, leaving me with the twins.
"I wish Lily had killed you," George snarled, gripping the gurney's edge. "Better deal than settling for this asshole."
"No, it isn't," Gina replied coldly. "And no one asked you."
George's eye widened with rage, his curse energy rippling. "Are you seriously taking his side?"
"You know me better than that," she said. "But I'm not rewriting history just because Lily was a friend."
"A friend?" George scoffed. "She loved you."
Gina blinked, then glanced at me before fixing her gaze on her brother. Her face didn't waver. "I was aware."
The admission drained much of George's anger. "I… just can't with you sometimes."
He stalked away, leaving me with Gina, who hadn't blinked once throughout. She exhaled through her nose, spun on her heel, and led the guards forward.
We passed more sorcerers—different ages, different nationalities. Some were in their twilight years; others looked barely past puberty. None dared approach Gina. They kept a respectful, fearful distance.
George struck me as the more powerful twin, despite her black hole reversal technique. Something about the red and blue spheres he had conjured unsettled me, but Gina terrified me more. She was controlled in a way no opponent I had ever faced had been. She reminded me of Batman—the parts of him that never blinked.
We stopped at an elevator and rode it down. Checking my reserves, I found I'd regenerated barely a hundred CE. My health was recovering faster, thankfully. In thirty minutes, I might even be able to stand again. Not that it mattered.
I had been teleported to an unknown stronghold surrounded by Special Grade Sorcerers. Even if I managed to land fifteen Black Flashes and climb to Special Grade, it wouldn't be enough to take down Artisan, Gina, or even George. And then there were others—Shelim, Ade, Priya. The guards themselves might have Blockbuster in their veins. And I hadn't even considered the Metas.
The elevator jolted to a stop. The guards wheeled me across the arenas. I caught glimpses of the sorcerers training—magnificent, precise, fast. Many matched me; some exceeded me. Their cursed energy reserves marked the strongest of them as First Grade.
Another thing to consider.
We halted before the black infirmary doors. They swung open, and the hallway beyond reeked of disinfectant and death. Fluorescent lights burned overhead.
Sweat prickled on my brow as I fought to steady my nerves. I reminded myself: this was part of the plan.
Even if I struggled to believe it.
We entered a vast chamber lined with tanks, each holding people suspended in liquid. Operating tables gleamed under sterile light. Men and women in white coats moved about like parts of a great machine.
At the center stood a dark-skinned Indian woman, orchestrating the chaos like a conductor.
Her eyes met mine as we approached. Words slipped out before I could stop them.
"It wasn't personal," I said to Gina. "Lily made it that way."
She didn't answer until the double doors opened fully. She kept her hand on the gurney and signaled for the guards to pause.
"Death is always personal," she said at last. "You should know that better than anyone."
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