The journey back felt longer, sharper than the one before. The icy night wind cut through his thin robes, unable to disperse the churning, heavy fog in his mind. Erika walked the silent streets alone, his footsteps echoing in the emptiness, each one a question hammered against the mute night sky.
His thoughts raced.
From Wolfgang's seemingly unreasonable running punishment, to Loren's poised, showy display in the bar, to the heart-pounding, indistinguishably real or staged interrogation and "execution" in the wilderness… scenes flashed past, trying to form a coherent picture. Was it to temper his will? Test his loyalty? Or to compare him with Loren, filtering out someone who met a certain standard?
But no matter how he thought, the clues seemed to point toward a larger, deeper darkness— a game of chess he couldn't begin to comprehend. Wolfgang's words—demons fighting demons—echoed like a curse. It seemed to explain everything, and nothing.
What demons was the Sanctum truly fighting?And what had they themselves become in the process?
A sense of futility gnawed at him. He felt like a puppet on invisible strings, thrust into staged dramas, struggling fiercely yet never seeing the puppeteer's true intent, never breaking free. The humiliation of being manipulated warred with a profound helplessness.
The chasm of power before him was vast, impassable. Wolfgang's effortless restraint of Kaelen with a Mind-Blade, his fathomless strength and cold decisiveness; the unimaginable family resources and deep heritage Loren represented… they were mountains on his chest.
Yet, coexisting with this powerlessness, was a sharper, more desperate hunger—for power itself.
This hunger was no longer just for survival or answers. It was fiercer, purer, edged with a desperate cruelty. It whispered in his ear, drowning out the humiliation and confusion:
What do you have left to lose, anyway?
His homeland was ash. His family, scattered or dead. This life of his was merely picked up from that massacre. In this city of light and shadow, he had nothing but this body, not yet broken, and the Mark.
And Anna…
The name surfaced, and a cold hand seemed to squeeze his heart.
Anna's clear eyes, her dependent gaze, and her unknown fate—sealed away in the silent priory—was a poisoned needle, piercing through all his hesitation and doubt.
Right now, Anna might also be—
He didn't dare finish the thought. The possibilities hidden in that unfinished sentence frightened him more than the blade in the wilderness.
He stopped abruptly, looking up toward the central Sanctum district—the colossal structures crouching in the night like sleeping beasts. There lay the power that controlled his fate, the truths he sought, and the shadows that might hold Anna captive.
The power gap remained despairingly wide. The road ahead was still shrouded in mist.
But… what did he have left to lose?
Erika drew a deep breath of the cold night air, forcing all the confusion, humiliation, and fear deep down. The flickering uncertainty in his eyes faded, replaced by an obsessive focus.
He stopped trying to solve puzzles with no current answers. His only task now was to seize the "chance" Wolfgang had thrown him, no matter how absurd it seemed, and get stronger. At any cost. Whatever it might turn him into.
He started walking again, his steps steadier, more resolute than before. The night enveloped his young, burdened frame, silently witnessing a seed—planted in the soil of despair—beginning to change its very nature.
In the Following Days
The Priory felt like a pond whose calm surface hid shifting undercurrents.
Erika's life fell into a rigid pattern. He rose before dawn, running the familiar corridors before the morning bell. His strides were no longer a frantic struggle, but held a silent, almost self-punishing precision and endurance. Sweat still soaked his robes, muscles still screamed, but the confusion in his eyes was replaced by a burning focus.
He stopped trying to decipher Wolfgang's motives or the purpose of that absurd night. He crushed all chaotic thoughts—his worry for Anna, his speculation about Loren—and forged them into fuel for his legs. If the body was the foundation, he would grind this stone until it was the hardest, the strongest.
He felt the weight of unseen eyes.
Sometimes from a shadowed corner of the cloister, sometimes from a high window. Wolfgang would appear occasionally, arms crossed, a silent monolith watching his progress, face impassive—no encouragement, no criticism, just observation. His gaze was an invisible ruler, measuring each adjustment in stride, each rhythm of breath.
Morrison's appearances were more dramatic. He'd pop out from behind a pillar, his thick lenses gleaming with excitement, charcoal and notepad in hand, scribbling furiously, muttering about "energy dissipation rates" and "muscle memory formation peaks." His gaze treated Erika less as a person and more as a fascinating specimen mid-reaction.
As for Loren de Witt, he had vanished after that night. The door to his cell remained shut, meals delivered by a designated handler. Whispers among the novices speculated about grave injuries or severe family punishment for his "indulgence." Only Erika knew the truth behind that closed door—wounds and secrets being licked clean, much like his own.
Lun Qin and Kaelen were also gone. Well-informed servants murmured about them being assigned to "oversee" a major construction site on the Sanctum's periphery. Their absence lessened a certain unspoken pressure, but also removed a faint, subtle sense of having allies.
Erika noted all this silently. He asked no questions, sought no explanations. He was a young beast honing its claws in silence, turning all external stimuli—observation, indifference, malice—into nourishment for the seed named power.
He ran, his steps a firm echo on cold stone.He endured, making the ache part of his body's memory.He waited, for the next "lesson," be it another form of running or a test more incomprehensible than the last.
The Priory's daily life flowed on with solemn rituals and monotonous lessons, but beneath that placid surface, Erika sensed a hidden river of power gathering. And he stood at its bank, ready to wade into its unknown, icy depths.
The Morning It Changed
The days of running and grinding seemed endless. Erika had thrown himself into the raw physical grind, almost believing it was his entire future—until that morning.
He had just finished a sprint, sweat dripping from his chin onto the cold stone, his chest heaving like a bellows. A tall figure materialized at the end of the cloister, blocking the first rays of the rising sun.
Wolfgang.
He wore his usual dark attire, his expression its typical flint, but his eyes held the specific focus of a mission commencing.
"Enough," Wolfgang said, stopping before Erika, his voice cutting the morning quiet. "Next, prepare to receive your next Mark."
Erika's heart lurched, hammering against his ribs. The next Mark. It meant more than just power. It was a tangible first step into the Sanctum's core systems, a step toward possibly saving Anna. He forced the surging emotion down, giving only a sharp, understanding nod.
Wolfgang watched the fire that instantly kindled—then was just as instantly banked—in Erika's eyes.
"This time," he added, his tone flat yet weighted, "I will assist and supervise the entire process. To ensure nothing goes wrong."
He paused, gaze sharp, as though searching Erika's innermost thoughts.
Then he added, somewhat abruptly, "Don't worry. This doesn't count as… the one I owe you."
The words landed like a stone in still water, rippling through Erika. A reminder of the crisis and rescue in the contemplation cell. A line drawn between "standard instruction" and "personal debt." Wolfgang seemed intent on maintaining a distance, on keeping things from becoming simple.
Before Erika could ponder it, Wolfgang had turned, gesturing for him to follow.
"You can't just decide to get a Mark," he explained as he strode ahead. "Each one requires reporting and registration with the Church's Bishopate. It's not just procedure. The process draws significant power from the Sanctum's energy network. It's not a burden an individual can bear."
So that was it. Erika understood. No wonder Marks signified status and power—their acquisition itself was strictly controlled. It sharpened his awareness that he was stepping into the core mechanisms of a vast system.
They left the Priory district, heading toward the Sanctum proper.
The dawn light washed over the city's streets. Unlike the night's silence or the bar's secrecy, the daytime Sanctum showed a different face. Vendors were setting up stalls, hawking fresh food and wares. Clerics in robes of various hues hurried to their posts. Ordinary faithful, holding rosaries or holy symbols, faces etched with piety or numbness, streamed toward different churches. The air smelled of breakfast, horse dung, and faint incense.
Everything was as it always was—chaotic, loud, mundane.As if the cruel trial of the wilderness and the bar's decadent indulgence had happened in some parallel world.
Erika followed Wolfgang through this familiar-yet-alien scene. Watching the bustling crowds, feeling the jarring disconnect between this ordinary atmosphere and his own tightly-strung anticipation, a profound sense of unreality washed over him.
Did these people know what undercurrents flowed beneath their city's radiant surface?Did they know how the "Eternal Circuit" energy they relied on was harvested and distributed?Did they know people like him were engaged in such dangerous, lonely treks for survival and a sliver of hope?
Wolfgang's broad back parted the crowd like a ship's prow. Erika pulled his gaze back, took a deep breath, and expelled all distractions.
Whatever lay ahead—Whatever secrets hid beneath this "normality"—He had only one goal now:
Go to the Sanctum.Register.Then, get the second Mark.