Ernst leaned back in his chair, a cold, amused smile playing on his lips.
He found Henry Morgan's desperation utterly fascinating.
Men toiled their entire lives, burned cities, and slaughtered millions for a mere fraction of immortality.
Yet, Henry wanted to throw it like a pair of worn-out shoes.
It was the arrogance of a man standing in a river, complaining about the water.
"I can indeed lift this spell," Ernst stated, his voice echoing in the smooth, windowless room.
"But you must understand how you survived. The souls of those slaves, the people who sacrificed themselves, are still tethered to your existence."
Ernst tapped his fingers against the table.
"Their eternal purpose is to resurrect you. If I shatter the curse, do you think it is appropriate to disregard their profound gift? They gave you eternity, and you want to throw it away without a second glance."
Henry looked horrified. He possessed an immortal body, but his understanding of the metaphysical universe was pathetically limited.
"Can't you just release them?" Henry pleaded, his voice breaking.
"Allow them to pass on to Heaven, or Hell, or wherever they are meant to be?"
Ernst let out a long, heavy sigh.
"If this were traditional European sorcery, or even ancient runic magic, I could untangle it effortlessly. But this is deep African blood-witchcraft. It is wildly unique. I cannot release the sealed souls intact."
"Why?" Henry demanded, leaning forward.
"What makes it so different?"
"It requires a brief lesson in the darkest, bloodiest part of history," Ernst replied, his eyes narrowing as he looked into the past.
"The definitive origin of wizards is lost to time. Most attribute the spark to the legends of Merlin. They wielded absolute, reality-bending power."
"Because of this power, early wizards viewed ordinary humans as less than cattle. They were gods. We were ants."
Ernst's voice dropped to a chilling whisper.
"Wizards possessed high self-esteem and zero empathy. They slaughtered villages for slight offenses. Countless innocents were reduced to ash just to test a new curse."
Henry shuddered. He had lived through centuries of war, but the casual cruelty Ernst described was staggering.
"For centuries, ordinary men cowered in fear," Ernst continued.
"Until the day a desperate, starving mob fought back."
"They managed to kill a wizard with cold iron. They watched the god bleed red blood. That singular moment shattered the myth of invincibility."
"The terror lifted. Organizations formed in the shadows. Witcher Hunters. The Inquisition. A brutal, grinding war of attrition between wizards and humanity began."
Ernst poured himself a glass of water from a pitcher that hadn't been there a moment before.
"Initially, they held the absolute upper hand. Magic is a devastating weapon. But humanity had something they didn't: numbers."
"It didn't matter if a wizard incinerated a hundred men. The humans were willing to trade a thousand lives just to put a pitchfork through one wizard's heart."
"As the decades bled by, their numbers dwindled. The situation became completely untenable. To survive, the remaining wizards vanished into the shadows, erasing themselves from history until they became mere myths."
Henry listened intently, his brow furrowed.
"This is fascinating history, but what does it have to do with the witchcraft binding my soul?"
"Patience, Doctor," Ernst said, waving a dismissive hand.
"I am getting to the origin of the Dark Arts."
"While in hiding, wizards still needed to eat. They needed resources. More importantly, they needed live subjects for their magical experiments."
"They set their sights on the primitive, isolated societies of the world. Specifically, the deep tribes of the African continent."
"What did they do?" Henry asked, a knot of dread tightening in his stomach.
"They played Prometheus," Ernst sneered.
"They introduced raw magic to Africa."
Henry was taken aback.
"Is it really that simple? They just handed over their greatest weapon out of kindness?"
"Kindness?" Ernst laughed, a harsh, grating sound.
"Do you think a predator teaches sheep how to bite?"
"The wizards were stagnant. Their traditional spell-craft was rigid. They hypothesized that by giving a spark of raw magic to an untainted, primitive mind, they might witness the creation of entirely new, unconventional spells."
Ernst leaned closer, his eyes dead and cold.
"It was an absolute, unmitigated disaster for the native tribes."
"How?" Henry asked.
"Wouldn't magic elevate them?"
"Magic is a weapon, Doctor," Ernst said flatly.
"Even trained wizards die horrific deaths from magical backlash. Now, imagine giving that power to someone who doesn't know what a spark is."
"It was like handing a loaded machine gun to an infant."
Ernst painted the picture with brutal clarity.
"The tribes viewed the wizards as literal gods. They eagerly practiced the arcane arts. The results were catastrophic."
"Only one in a thousand survived the channeling process. Flesh melted. Minds shattered. Villages spontaneously combusted. It was an era of absolute darkness."
"But," Ernst noted, raising a finger, "some survived. Some created terrifying, beautiful new magic."
"And when they did, the observing wizards swooped in, stole the newly forged spell, and slaughtered the creator. To the wizards, the Africans were just disposable lab rats."
Henry's fists clenched. "How could they do that? Did they possess no humanity at all?"
"Humanity?" Ernst mocked.
"Wizards of that era did not recognize the concept. You do not mourn the rat that dies in the maze."
"But the wizards underestimated human resilience. A few brilliant individuals among the tribes saw through the illusion of the 'gods'."
"They secretly united. They hoarded the fragments of magic created at the cost of thousands of lives. They formed the hidden sect of the Black Priests."
"They weaponized their own suffering. They created Witchcraft. And the immortality curse is one of their absolute masterpieces."
Ernst pointed directly at Henry's chest.
"It was forged through the sacrifice of innumerable priests. It is woven with blood, agony, and generational pain."
"Because of its chaotic origins, it has no fixed rules. If I simply break the anchor, the magical feedback will be violently catastrophic."
"The souls inside you won't be freed. They will be shattered into agonizing, cosmic dust. And you will die instantly."
Ernst leaned back, letting the gravity of the situation crush the doctor.
"Are you truly certain you want to break the curse? Are you ready to abandon your wife and walk into the void alone?"
Henry froze.
He looked at Abigail. He saw the decades of love, the quiet moments, the shared lifetimes of grief and joy etched into the wrinkles of her face.
He couldn't do it. He couldn't leave her behind.
"No," Henry said, his voice trembling but absolute.
"Absolutely not. I cannot leave Abigail. I want to spend whatever time she has left by her side."
Ernst nodded approvingly. He clapped his hands together, the sharp sound echoing in the sterile room.
"That is the spirit!" Ernst declared.
"That is how a man should answer. Now, let us address the glaring aesthetic discrepancy between you and your wife."
Ernst summoned a holographic file, hovering it over the table.
"I have an opportunity for you. I intend to thoroughly dissect and study the mechanics of Witchcraft. I need a living, immortal specimen. I need your cooperation."
"In return," Ernst offered, his eyes gleaming.
"I will grant your wife thirty years of pure, distilled life force."
Abigail gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.
"I will revert her back, restoring her to the exact physical state she had thirty years ago. However, the clock will resume. She will age normally from that point onward."
"Can't you keep her perpetually young?" Henry asked, the desperation leaking into his voice.
"Won't we just end up facing this exact same tragedy in another thirty years?"
Ernst chuckled.
"You are ambitious, Doctor. I respect that. Let us sweeten the arrangement."
"I have recently acquired a secluded farm in Kansas. My previous steward is busy managing my global industrial empire."
"I require a highly competent housekeeper. I also require a live-in, private physician."
"You will serve my household. In exchange, I will provide your wife with an annual stipend of pure life force, effectively freezing her biological clock."
Abigail didn't hesitate. She looked at Ernst with fierce determination.
"I want to be with him," she said firmly.
"No matter where we are, or who we serve. We will not be separated."
Ernst nodded in satisfaction.
"Excellent. Furthermore, Mrs. Morgan, given your background as a combat nurse, you will assist in the nursery."
"I have two... unique children. I am not particularly adept at the softer aspects of childcare. You will assist Tina in raising them."
Abigail blinked in surprise. The terrifying, god-like being sitting across from them needed a nanny. It was a bizarrely humanizing detail.
"We agree," Henry said, squeezing Abigail's hand.
"When do we start? And where?"
"Before you set foot on my land, we formalize the arrangement," Ernst stated.
He snapped his fingers.
A heavy, thick parchment materialized on the table. The ink glowed with a faint, crimson light, smelling of ozone and old blood.
"This is an absolute, binding soul contract," Ernst explained clinically.
"You will serve my household for thirty years. You will submit to my research. Upon signing, Abigail receives her thirty-year life force immediately."
"When the thirty years conclude, we will renegotiate. You are free to leave at that time, should you choose."
Ernst slid the parchment across the smooth table.
"Review the contents. There are exactly thirty-three primary clauses, supported by one hundred and six sub-details. Key contingencies are annotated in the margins."
"If you find the terms acceptable, sign your names."
Henry and Abigail pulled the parchment closer.
He read it with the meticulous, paranoid scrutiny of a man who had been hunted for centuries.
They checked every loophole, every defined responsibility, and every termination clause.
To their profound relief, there were no hidden traps.
Ernst was a predator, but he was an honest one.
The terms were brutally strict, but exactly as advertised.
Henry picked up the heavy iron quill.
He looked at Abigail one last time. She nodded, her eyes shining with the promise of a second youth.
Henry pressed the nib to the parchment and signed his name. Abigail took the quill and did the same.
The ink flared a bright, blinding red, searing the agreement into the fabric of the universe itself.
The contract was sealed.
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