The walls of the underground chamber were charred by recent explosions. The air smelled of burning, and the ether, finally finding an outlet, gradually stabilized. Siren carried the old mage Mearin on his back, heading toward the iron platform.
To his surprise, two men were already sitting beside the platform. He recognized both of them. One was the priest with gray hair and a rifle in his hands. He sat with his arms crossed and seemed to be trying to stabilize himself. Priests, as users with the highest synchronization level, suffered most from the dead ether. Siren could see faint pulses of ether still circulating over his body—sometimes fading, sometimes flaring.
The second was a stocky man of sturdy build—Rud, with a heavy blade at his waist. Yet strange changes had clearly overtaken him. Rud had always stood out by his height, but now he was at least twice as tall as Siren himself. And not only had his appearance changed—the fighter's very aura had become tense and predatory, like that of a wild beast.
"What the hell is going on?" Siren couldn't understand. After Lance's appearance, he had lost the ability to perceive events sanely and began to doubt his own mind.
At that moment, he felt the previously immobilized old mage twitch slightly.
"Stop," the priest Tas said sharply.
He rose to his feet, breaking off his meditation, and took a step forward.
"Put him on the ground and step back."
Siren didn't question. Carefully lowering the old mage to the floor, he took a step back. Whatever was happening—it clearly smelled of kerosene.
Mearin glared with fury at the people surrounding him.
The two therianthropes had apparently concealed their identities until now. Possibly, they had been wanted by the Hyperpol.
One of them had just bound Siren tightly, leaving him beside them with no chance of escape.
But that did not interest the old mage. His gaze was fixed on the priest. He tried to unravel whether Tas had been in league with these half‑humans from the start, or if he only now joined them with his own plan in mind.
He could not say a word, forced to look helplessly. His body did not obey, but his mind remained clear. And that clarity brought not relief—but agonizing powerlessness.
Tas came closer. He squatted before the paralyzed old man and looked into his eyes.
"Mearin… to be honest, I was surprised when I saw you alive." He smirked, like a man nostalgic for something long past.
"And how did you manage to sink into such a state?"
Tas took a cigarette case from his inner pocket, clicking the lid. Drawing the cigarette to his lips, he struck a flame. Dense, heavy smoke enveloped him. For a second, his gaze relaxed as the smoke drifted toward the helpless old man's face.
"You've really become too sentimental," he continued. "Where's the old mage who didn't even trust his own shadow? To hand me your entire squad so easily… And then come down here with that sick bastard? No… This isn't sentimentality. It's something else."
Mearin trembled. His body convulsed with pain, every muscle locked. But physical pain now seemed insignificant. Far more searing were the words from the man he had long considered a friend.
He remembered how once he entrusted Tas with the most precious things. How he believed the priest was the only one capable of understanding his fears, his goals, his sacrifices. How many years they had shared the journey, defended each other on expeditions, fought side by side… And now here he sat before him, like an executioner, drawing on a cigarette over the weakened body of a friend.
"When did you start lying to me?" Mearin wanted to ask. "From the beginning?.. Or only now?"
But his voice failed him.
"I'll be honest," Tas said, tossing the cigarette butt and crushing it under his heel. "I don't want to kill you with my own hands." He glanced aside, as if weighing a decision. "And your abilities… could come in handy."
Inside Mearin, something boiled. Rising rage burned stronger than any ether overload. But he still could not speak a single word.
Tas looked in turn at the two therianthropes.
"We need to wait until he can recover. I know Mearin well. In his current state, he'll need no more than three hours for partial recovery. Then we proceed with the plan."
Lance, still wearing a lazy grin, playfully hugged Evalin's body. His striped beast ears flickered slightly as he narrowed his eyes.
"And what about him?" he said, nodding toward Siren.
Siren sat on the ground beside the old mage. There was not a trace of nervousness in his face. He observed them without interference.
Tas gave the youth a look, then said casually:
"He will go inside instead of Mearin. Would be a shame to waste the potential of the old mage on such work. After all, we can obtain other subjects for that later. Let him rejoice that he's first."
Siren didn't utter a word. He silently listened as his fate was decided for him, and once again sank into his own thoughts.
A thin shard of chitin lay in his hand, which he had quietly picked up from the floor. His fingers squeezed it tightly, as if grasping the last possibility. While pondering his plan, Siren watched the trio carefully, evaluating every movement.
Tas seemed to return to meditation. He withdrew to a safe distance, continuing his own stabilization. Lance, still surrounded by the presence of the controlled girl, lay in relaxed ease. And Rud stretched out at the edge of the platform, seeming to rest placidly.
Light came only from one lantern lit next to the priest. All else in the chamber was dark. If there had ever been a moment to escape—this was it. But doubt held Siren back.
He was troubled by the absence of one figure. The female warrior who had accompanied them from the beginning had vanished without a trace. Perhaps she hid in the shadows nearby. His gaze darted, searching her silhouette in the gloom, but even his enhanced vision could not penetrate the veil where she must have been hidden.
Sighing, Siren turned his gaze to the old mage. He was pale, sweat trickled down his forehead. Weak, translucent streams of dead ether seeped from him, clearing through the synchronization channels. Judging by his expression, the process was painful.
Siren frowned.
"If I think about it… why did I decide to help him?"
Maybe if he hadn't carried him back then, things would have turned out differently. Perhaps he would have had a chance to escape.
He himself did not know what drove him then. Gratitude for being saved? An illusion of shared responsibility? Or the lingering influence of infection—a chaotic, sticky trace of pain that awoke emotions not his own?
Whatever it was, it seemed that everything had returned to its original state.
He had once again lost his freedom.
As if mocking him, he was held prisoner by the same people he had hoped to leave behind forever.