The light inside the Black Tower was as ever—constant, pale, unnaturally even, seeping from walls and certain crystals. No shadows. Almost no variation in temperature. The air, smelling of old books, dust, and faint energy currents, now carried a stronger whiff of the tomb.
Erika slid down to sit with his back against the cold, smooth wall that seemed to breathe faintly with a life of its own. The adrenaline from earlier shocks had long receded, leaving a deeper, more viscous exhaustion and void.
Reality, like the ubiquitous cold light in the Tower, shone without mercy into the corners of his heart he least wished to see.
The right to live? He thought of the ruined border village, the Sanctum's cold floors, every near-death gasp during training, the novice clerics who vanished without a sound during the Angel's Descent ritual. His life had never been his own. It was a 'resource' the Sanctum could harvest at any time, a 'variable' Wolfgang assessed for value, and now, a mobile, interesting 'anomaly' in the eyes of the Black Tower Sorcerer, Quinn.
Even the right to die seemed denied. Dying in the Sanctum meant becoming fuel for the 'Circuit'. Dying here would likely make him another 'specimen' worthy of dissection on Quinn's laboratory bench. His death would hold no meaning, only 'utility'.
Maybe… the mistake was made earlier. Maybe he shouldn't have survived in the border village. Maybe when Balthasar selected him, he should have bowed his head, closed his eyes, and surrendered himself completely, like the other numb survivors.
Obedience.
The word held a pathetic allure. If he had been 'obedient' then, would he now be a low-tier cleric with stable Marks, living in a dull but 'safe' oblivion in some insignificant post, until one day quietly drained by the system?
The thought churned his stomach—not with anger, but with a deeper helplessness.
"What's on your mind?"
The voice from beside him made Erika startle violently, jolted from his self-destructive thoughts. He looked up to see Loren approaching, crouching before him. The noble youth's complexion had improved somewhat from outside, though traces of shock lingered in his eyes. The demeanor of his class—the effort to maintain composure—had regained some ground. He even held two smooth, dark fruits dug up from some corner of the Tower, offering one.
"You look terrible," Loren frowned, examining him. His eyes held genuine concern, but also a thread of… estrangement. The estrangement toward something incomprehensible. To Loren, they had just survived a terrible attack and were now safe. That was all. He couldn't see what Erika saw, feel the resonance Erika felt, much less understand that more fundamental despair born from the cognitive realm.
Erika looked at the offered fruit, then at Loren's face. This face held fear, confusion, and forced composure, but at least… for now, it was whole, belonging to a living person. No metal casing. No cables.
An absurd thought struck him: Perhaps, in the Sanctum, the wilderness, on the scorched earth outside the Tower… his clumsy, instinctual struggles and choices had, at the very least, allowed Loren to stand here now, looking at him with estranged yet genuine eyes? Was this… the first time he had truly, in a real sense, protected another person? Even if it was a byproduct, even if insignificant.
The thought brought no warmth, only a bitter, almost ironic solace. Like striking a match in an endless winter night, catching a glimpse of one's own frozen fingers.
The corner of his mouth twitched. He wanted to say something to Loren, but found his throat dry, incapable of forming meaningful sounds. In the end, he just shook his head very slowly and took the fruit. It was cool to the touch, hard, not something that looked edible.
Loren didn't seem to expect a reply. He sat down beside Erika, mimicking his posture against the wall, and took a bite of his own fruit—his face predictably scrunched up. "What is this thing…" he muttered, but forced it down anyway.
Silence spread for a while, filled only by the almost inaudible, low hum of energy flowing within the Tower.
"Nothing," Erika heard his own parched voice say. He tried to twitch his lips into a semblance of a smile and failed. "Just… tired."
Loren didn't seem fully convinced, but didn't press. Instead, with suppressed excitement trying to appear calm, he lowered his voice. "That Sorcerer… Master Quinn… just asked if I wanted to be his assistant."
Erika's breath hitched imperceptibly.
"He said," Loren continued, a light flickering in his eyes—the spark of new possibilities, the rediscovery of his own worth—"since I didn't complete my first Marking, my body is still in a 'relatively blank' state. I might not have power, but I could barely… do some basic recording, organizing, or help him maintain some of the Tower's less complex structures." He scratched his head, seeming somewhat embarrassed but unable to resist adding, "He said my 'observation isn't bad, and my hands aren't too clumsy.'"
Erika watched him quietly. As Loren spoke, his words came faster than usual, his gestures more animated, his face lit with a brightness akin to regaining an identity. The past terror, aristocratic arrogance, fragile brink-of-collapse vulnerability… all that had once been deeply etched onto Loren seemed scraped away roughly by the cataclysm, revealing something more primitive and adaptable underneath. He hadn't been completely broken. Instead, amid the ruins, he'd found a vine called 'utility' to cling to.
The change was immense. So immense it felt unfamiliar to Erika, felt… indescribably distant. They had fallen together, but Loren seemed already to be figuring out how to find a foothold on this new, equally dangerous cliff face, while Erika was still dizzy and suffocating from the fall itself.
Loren was still talking about the Tower's wondrous structure, the superficial knowledge Quinn mentioned, about 'maybe learning something different'. His voice buzzed in Erika's ears but couldn't truly enter his heart.
Loren saw new hope. And Erika, at the edge of that hopeful glow, saw only deeper, formless shadows. They were in the same Black Tower, breathing the same air, yet stood as if on opposite ends of the same scorched field—one seeing golem wreckage, the other seeing silently burning silver fire.
Silence spread on Erika's side. Listening to Loren's lively chatter, feeling the heavy thud of his own heart—beating for whom, he didn't know—he realized with startling clarity for the first time:
On this path of survival, he might be losing the last companion who could fully 'understand' him.
And ahead, whether inside the Tower or out, loneliness was baring its pale fangs sooner than death.
The footsteps were light, but in the overly quiet upper level of the Black Tower, they were distinct. Quinn walked over. He had changed into clean, dark grey casual clothes. The fabric was soft but couldn't mask that bone-deep coldness. He stood with arms crossed, posture relaxed, his face showing that metallic calm that comes after all intense emotions have been thoroughly reined in. Only deep in his eyes remained a faint, assessing sharpness.
"Ahem." He cleared his throat lightly, breaking the silent estrangement and separate thoughts between Erika and Loren. The sound was soft but carried an undeniable authority to interrupt.
His gaze first fell on Loren, who had just stood up, looking somewhat bewildered at the interrupted conversation. His tone was businesslike. "If you don't want to mold away in this Tower forever, go organize the inventory for me. Third door on the left. Some… 'miscellany' inside. Sort it, make a list." He paused, adding, "Carefully. Don't touch things you don't recognize."
Loren nodded almost eagerly, as if receiving some vital mission, or perhaps just eager to escape the sudden weight of the atmosphere. He threw Erika a quick smile mixed with encouragement and 'good luck', then hurried toward the indicated doorway, his figure soon disappearing into the corridor's shadows.
Now, only Erika remained, and the Black Tower Sorcerer looking down at him.
Quinn's gaze returned, settling on Erika. He didn't speak immediately. Instead, he took a few steps forward, then, without warning, crouched down directly in front of Erika. The action shattered the usual safe distance, bringing intense pressure. Erika could see clearly the deep, pool-like grey of Quinn's eyes, the fine lines at their corners, even smell the lingering, faint scents of tobacco and something peculiar—like old metal and cold spring water.
Erika felt intensely uncomfortable, as if being closely sniffed by a large, inscrutable predator. He wanted to shrink back, but his spine was already against the wall. His fingers unconsciously dug into the smooth yet unfamiliar floor material beneath him. His throat was dry, but he didn't dare look away or make any move that might be interpreted as resistance or provocation.
Quinn examined him like that for several seconds, his gaze moving from Erika's pale face to his neck, as if assessing his condition or confirming something. Finally, he straightened up, the pressure easing slightly.
"Come," Quinn's tone remained flat, unreadable. He tilted his head toward an inconspicuous doorway on the other side of the room. "Let's talk."
Talk? Erika's heart sank. 'Talk' with this Sorcerer who had just raged out of control on the scorched earth and then turned instantly cold? This chilled him more than any clear order. But he had no choice.
He pushed himself up on weak legs and followed Quinn silently toward the door.
The room beyond was Quinn's bedroom. Contrary to Erika's expectations, it held no luxury or bizarre decoration. The space was modest, the furnishings simplistic to the point of austerity. It had everything, yet everything exuded the function-over-form, slightly chaotic practicality of a long-term solitary dweller, starkly different from the unnatural order and mystery of other Tower areas.
Yet, Erika's gaze was instantly, irrevocably captured by a large oil painting hanging on the wall directly opposite the bed.
The canvas showed its age, paint slightly cracked at the edges, but the colors remained vivid. At the center stood three figures against a backdrop resembling an ancient library or laboratory, surrounded by books and glowing crystals.
On the left was a tall, lean man in scholar-like robes. One hand rested casually on a floating, faintly glowing great book. His face bore a carefree, brilliantly confident, almost arrogant smile, eyes bright as if gazing at infinite possibilities beyond the canvas.
On the right was another man, dressed more simply and sharply, posture upright. He too wore a smile, but it was steadier, more reserved, radiating reliable determination. Beside him was another great book, different in style—heavier, more ancient—under his lightly resting hand.
And between them, slightly set back, stood a woman. She had dark hair, a fair face, but her brow was shadowed by a faint, persistent melancholy. Her smile was shallow, almost a polite lift of the corner of her mouth. Her gaze seemed distant, preoccupied. Her hand rested lightly on the cover of a third great book, which appeared the most ancient of all, its cover intricately patterned.
Three great books. Three people with utterly different demeanors.
Erika's eyes were nailed to the painting, especially the woman's melancholic face.
"Sit," Quinn's voice pulled him from his stupor. The Sorcerer had already taken the high-backed chair, pointing to the only relatively tidy stool before the workbench.
Erika obeyed, sitting stiffly. The room's intimacy made the atmosphere of the 'talk' even more subtle and dangerous.
Quinn watched his tension, the corner of his mouth twitching almost imperceptibly. Not a smile. More like a mocking understanding. He leaned forward slightly, elbows on knees, fingers interlaced, those grey eyes looking directly into Erika's.
"Relax," he began, his voice low, each word striking Erika's taut nerves. "If I intended to do anything to you, you'd already be lying here." He paused, his gaze meaningfully sweeping over Erika's arms—where the twin Marks throbbed faintly beneath the skin.
Erika's breath caught. Quinn's bluntness was a douse of ice water.