The air in the room didn't just feel thin; it felt poisonous, scraping against the back of his throat with every ragged breath. For a heartbeat, Mathias didn't move. Then, a sound escaped him—not a cry, but a broken, guttural heave of a man whose world had just turned into a slaughterhouse.
He lunged up from his chair, the heavy wood screeching against the floor like a dying animal. His hands flew to his head, fingers digging so deep into his scalp it looked as if he were trying to peel back his own skull to let the memories out.
"I killed him..." he whispered, the words trembling and wet. "I killed my son."
Suddenly, a sharp, crystalline crack echoed through the room. The obsidian ring on his finger—the one forged to suppress his surging mana—began to spiderweb with glowing white fractures. The air around him distorted, vibrating with a chaotic, violent energy that mirrored the wreckage of his mind. The ring couldn't hold it. The guilt was more powerful than the magic.
