The Master stood up and walked toward the tall window. Moonlight touched his face, casting a soft glow over his pale features. In his hand, he held a dried rose from yesterday.
He looked like a marble sculpture so still and perfect that Irwyn couldn't help but admire him silently.
But the moment ended when the Master spoke in his usual cold voice, pulling Irwyn back to reality.
"What happened out there?" Ivaan asked.
"He's in no condition to speak," Eirwyn replied. "When he arrived, he was completely shaken. Not a single word. The physician said he needs rest. It might take twenty-four hours for him to fully regain consciousness… but still, anything can happen."
Ivaan turned, eyes burning like embers, and moved toward his wardrobe. He chose a shirt that whispered elegance silk flowing like moonlight.
"Inform the physician. I'll arrive in ten minutes to see the survivor," he ordered.
"Yes, Master." Eirwyn nodded and left without another word, quickly making the call, while the Master dressed in silence, preparing for the short journey to the lower wing of the estate.
Ten minutes later, Ivaan stepped into the room where surviour had staying.
The moment he entered, the scent of blood touched his senses faint, but unmistakable. It clung to the air like something that didn't want to leave.
As he moved closer to the survivor, the scent grew stronger.
The physician, startled by the Master's presence, quickly picked up the report with quiet respect.
The man lay on a narrow bed.
With a smooth voice, the physician began: "We've wrapped his chest in thick bandages. His ribs were fractured. The sides of his facebruised."
The man's body trembled, even in sleep.
Ivaan paused beside him. His gaze lingered.
'The thread of life was already fragile nearly broken. Only a few thin strands remained, holding the man's soul together.'
His face remained calm neither too stern nor too gentle. In his eyes, there was quiet attention, as if he wished to understand before judging.
His expression didn't change. This wasn't new to him. He had seen too many people in this state dangling on the edge of death for over a century.
A low groan escaped the survivor's lips.
Ivaan's head tilted slightly not in surprise, but as if confirming something he already suspected.
"He's close," he murmured, only loud enough for himself.
The physician glanced nervously between the man and the Master. "Should I increase the sedative?"
"No," Ivaan said sharply, without raising his voice. "Let him drift. His dreams may speak louder than his waking words."
He stepped closer, lowering himself beside the bed.
For a moment, the Master said nothing.
There was no answer. Only the faint rattle of the man's breath and the tension humming in the silence.
Behind him, the candle flickered.
And then barely perceptible the survivor's lips parted.
A single word fell into the space between them.
"Help."
Ivaan's eyes narrowed.
"Physician," he said, rising. "Double the guards tonight. No one comes in or out without my seal."
"But… Master " the physician hesitated.
As he turned to leave, Ivaan's voice dropped to a whisper. The physician froze. His face drained of color.
"Call the Lady Strategist in an hour," he said. His tone was calm but carried a sharp edge. "If there are any delays… someone might lose their head."
Eirwyn trembled. "Yes, sir. I'll contact Lady Diana immediately."
Without wasting time, he left the room. But instead of using a phone, he activated his telepathic technique. A soft glow filled his eyes as he connected his mind to hers a direct telepathic call. Faster. Immediate.
Exactly what the Master expected.
Ivaan remained in the room, standing still beside the trembling man.
The physician stood nearby but dared not speak. The Master's silence filled the room like fog.
The flickering candle on the table cast soft shadows on the wall.
Ivaan looked at the survivor one last time, then turned .
At that moment, nothing had changed on his face.
But something in his eyes had sharpened.
—____^^^^
He returned to his chamber. As he stepped inside, the lone candle flared to life without a touch, and the room brightened with a soft, unnatural glow.
Ivaan stood still at the center, the heavy curtains rustling from an invisible wind. He closed his eyes.
"Goddess who once blessed our blood," he whispered, voice low and ancient.
He chanted in a forgotten tongue, the words curling through the air like smoke.
His eyes snapped open now crimson, shimmering like fractured rubies.
Something had awakened. And it wasn't mercy.
In his hand, without warning, appeared a sword long, obsidian-bladed, humming with ancient energy. It didn't gleam; it absorbed light.
He looked down at it, expression unreadable.
Gone was the silk shirt, replaced by a garment of dark layers a high-collared coat with intricate silver threading, ancient runes etched along the sleeves like whispered echoes of long-dead ancestors. His boots echoed faintly on the stone floor as he stepped forward, each movement smooth, deliberate.
Time surged ahead in this chamber, the clock hands spinning like thunder.
Beneath his tall black boots, a strange magic circle bloomed red as blood, glowing like fire in every direction.
A sudden portal emerged before him completely black side were like broken glass , as if even shadows feared to enter.
Without hesitation, he stepped into it. Not a second wasted.
The portal pulled him into a forgotten dungeon a place swallowed by darkness.
It was completely pitch black. Silent. Still.
"Only the stairs beneath my boots are visible," he thought to himself.
In the depths of the forgotten dungeon, a cold wind slipped past Ivaan, like it was fleeing the path he had come from like even air feared to linger here.
He stepped into a ruined hall, where silence clung to the stone like dust, ancient and unmoving. The walls sagged with age, and the air trembled with things unsaid.
From behind, a shadow stirred long and twisting. It curled around him like smoke, then reached out.
A phantom hand brushed his cheek.