During those days, I began asking myself more and more questions. The more I learned, the more I realized that something didn't add up. Hilda never brought the subject up again, and even if she had, I wouldn't have known what to say to her.
Why was I able to understand everything so quickly?
And why hadn't my mana manifested yet?
Most people manifested their aptitude for mana around the age of three. Not everyone was capable of developing it, but to my knowledge, there had never been a single case of a complete lack of mana in the entire history of the Eisenhart family.
And that was probably the exact reason why my father was so incredibly distant.
Another anomaly was those headaches. I had spent countless hours studying with Szilard in the past without experiencing anything remotely similar.
So what changed? Is this somehow tied to my lack of mana, too?
At first, I desperately searched for an answer, but as time wore on, I stopped asking why. That pain had simply become a constant I was almost used to. Without me even realizing it, this entire ordeal had begun to shape the way I observed the world and made my decisions.
On the fourth day of the second week, Hilda vanished again. She didn't even show up that morning to deliver my usual meal. Normally, she would only be absent every other day, leaving around midday and not returning until the evening. This time, however, was different.
I figured her workload had simply increased. After all, she had a multitude of maids under her direct supervision.
I was in my room when I heard my brothers' voices again. This time, however, I wasn't imagining them. I peered out the window and spotted them down in the private gardens.
I felt a sudden, desperate urge to call out to them, to ask them what they were doing, but I couldn't open my mouth.
They were walking closely behind Szilard. Both Rowan and Darian were carrying heavy travel packs.
Are they leaving?
The realization hit me instantly.
I sighed.
If they hadn't shown their faces until now, knowing them, there had to be a reason. There had to be. Especially for Rowan. It wasn't like him at all. I knew he cared about me; he had always proven it in the past.
Even though, deep down, that silent detachment only hurt me.
A moment later, I heard someone open the door. I jolted. It was Hilda. She entered the room clutching a sealed parchment scroll in her hands.
She didn't speak to me immediately, keeping her eyes firmly glued to the floor.
Her face was rigidly set as she unrolled the document.
"Young Master..."
What? ...Father.
My father, Vorgath, had enforced the law to the letter. The very same edict that had stripped me of the Stahl name mandated that I could remain in my quarters for a maximum of three weeks.
I had exactly one and a half weeks left.
Once that deadline expired, I would be escorted outside the inner walls, beyond the citadel, and handed over to the direct supervision of a man named Zoltan, Captain of the Crimson Order.
There, I would be forced to learn how to fight, trained exclusively to be deployed on high-risk, suicidal missions.
The edict was absolute: life or death, I could never reclaim my family name, nor could I ever aspire to hold a high rank. I would remain a simple Eisenhart, without a branch of the family to belong to, useful only for spilling my blood on the front lines in exchange for avoiding outright slavery.
One and a half weeks.
I kept repeating that timeframe in my head as if it were a death sentence.
I needed something more. I needed knowledge that could actually keep me alive. So, a few evenings later, I took advantage of Hilda's absence to sneak back into her room.
Whenever I asked her for books, she would occasionally go in there to fetch them. She had to have a small personal library, or at least a few shelves where she kept them.
It was barely midday when Hilda crossed the threshold of the main doors and pulled them shut behind her. I waited a few minutes, just in case she had forgotten something and turned back. When I was absolutely certain the coast was clear, I made my way to her chamber.
I rummaged through the highest shelves of her bookcase, ignoring the dense texts on history and aristocratic politics, until I found something useful: a thick book, bound in dark leather.
The cover was what originally caught my eye. The leather binding was completely distinct from the others; fine lines and bizarre symbols had been hand-carved into the dark surface, worn smooth in places by the passage of time.
But it was the centerpiece illustration that made me stop dead in my tracks.
It depicted a human figure viewed from behind, completely covered in a web of tiny dots and intersecting lines tracing along the body. Some were carved so deeply they almost looked like open wounds. The longer I stared at it, the more I felt a slow, icy shiver slide down my spine.
I hurried back to my room, locking myself in and wedging the heavy wooden chair under the door handle.
Breathing heavily, I threw myself face-down onto the bed and immediately cracked the book open.
It was a thick, weighty volume, but the pages were large and the text generously spaced. The parchment was thick and coarse beneath my fingers, and the vast majority of the pages were dedicated to detailed anatomical illustrations.
They displayed the human body from various angles, with specific dots and lines mapped across the neck, chest, arms, and legs. Beside each figure were a few short lines of text.
This is easy to understand...
I continued reading.
"The Breath Node: located at the base of the neck. Sudden pressure applied here can induce severe pain and momentarily disrupt the respiratory rhythm. Do not apply excessive force."
I flipped the page.
"The Pulse Point: situated on the inner forearm. Precise pressure can temporarily weaken the grip and severely impair finger mobility."
Another illustration displayed a profile view of the leg.
"The Stride Point: positioned just above the knee. Prolonged pressure can cause numbness and a temporary loss of physical stability."
I paused for a moment.
So you just have to press the right spot...
The further I read, the more those dots took on a terrifyingly precise meaning. Pressure in one spot could inflict blinding pain, another could paralyze a limb, and others could sabotage bodily motor functions or induce unconsciousness. Conversely, there were also techniques detailed that seemed designed to stimulate and enhance physical conditions.
I tore through half the book almost without realizing it. That was when I felt the pain return. I tried to keep reading, but the sensation gradually intensified, while a thin, burning heat began spreading toward my temples. I stopped, squeezing my eyes shut for a few seconds.
It's a bit stronger than usual today... I gave my head a slight shake and returned to the page.
The illustrations made everything shockingly simple to grasp. I didn't need to re-read passages for long; all I had to do was study the diagram, trace the lines, and cross-reference them with the text.
A moment later, a sudden, violent throb exploded inside my skull.
The sheer agony forced me to stop. I tried to move my hand, but it felt bizarrely distant, as if it were no longer truly attached to me. I was rapidly losing control of the rest of my body.
What... is happening to me?
I tried to push myself up, but my legs buckled instantly. For a terrifying second, I felt as though something were violently dragging me out of my own body.
A freezing shudder ripped down my spine.
Am I dying?
The thought materialized in my mind, and I was completely powerless to banish it.
I collapsed sideways, dragging the heavy book to the floor with me. The room began to violently spin, and a wave of nausea rose from my stomach. I desperately tried to focus on what was in front of me, but the outlines of the room began to blur and bleed together.
I fought to keep my eyes open.
The light grew weaker and weaker.
Then, it was gone.
I opened my eyes. A weak, ashen sunlight filtered through the cracks in the window shutters. I was lying in bed. I felt completely hollowed out, my body impossibly heavy and my muscles rigid, as if I hadn't moved them in days. My throat was so parched that merely swallowing sent a spike of pain down my neck.
I slowly looked around the room and spotted Hilda. She was standing perfectly still by the door. She had heavy, bruised bags under her eyes, and her face was deathly pale.
"Why did you touch that book?"
Her voice was quiet, but it cracked.
"I told you to rest. You needed to stop reading for a while."
She dropped her gaze to the heavy leather book still resting near me, then looked back up.
"You have been asleep for six days." She swallowed hard.
"Today marks the end of the third week. I tried to wake you, but..."
She fell silent for a few seconds. When she spoke again, her voice trembled slightly.
"You terrified me."
Six days? How was that even possible?
I brought a hand to my face, pressing my palm against my forehead.
What... What happened?
I was in absolute shock. I couldn't remember a single thing.
I was on the bed, reading that book, and then...
I looked down at my clothes. I was completely clean, and I didn't smell. I looked back at Hilda and instantly understood the reason for those dark circles under her eyes.
Six days.
A sharp pang squeezed my chest.
I opened my mouth, but my voice remained firmly lodged in my throat. I couldn't force a single word out. I had no idea what to say.
I never wanted to leave Hilda alone for that long. I painstakingly pushed myself up into a sitting position, my knees and elbows aching in protest, keeping my eyes fixed on the bedsheets.
Hilda approached the bed. Clasped tightly in her hands was a small bundle of coarse canvas, which she gently placed at my feet.
Then, with a sudden, rapid motion, she seized my left wrist.
I flinched in surprise, but Hilda refused to let go. She slid a hand into her sleeve and produced a dark metal and leather bracer. She secured it firmly around my wrist, buckling it tightly. The metal was smooth and shockingly cold against my skin.
A moment later, she met my eyes.
For a fraction of a second, I felt her fingers tighten their grip. Then, she let go.
"Never take this off. In less than an hour, they will come to get you..." she whispered, suddenly dropping all formalities. Her tone was so low I barely heard her.
I reached out with both hands and took hers.
"Thank you, Hilda... for these past few days."
I sat up straight, turning to face her fully, and felt her hand trembling beneath my palms.
She slowly dropped to her knees in front of me. This time, she took my hand between both of hers and gently pressed it against her cheek.
"Young Master..."
My eyes began to sting, and I looked down at her.
"I never told you this... but I wanted to thank you," I murmured, squeezing her fingers.
"Thank you for not abandoning me. And thank you... for staying here with me."
Her grip tightened fiercely, but a moment later, she slowly let go of my hand.
"Survive... Out there... it will be brutal."
She stood up abruptly, frantically wiping away her tears. Before I could respond, before I could even ask her about the meaning behind the gift, she turned and marched out of the room with brisk, purposeful strides, pulling the door shut behind her without ever looking back.
Hilda...
I approached the window. Down in the courtyard, I spotted a dark carriage and an old man—an austere figure speaking with the guards. My time was up. I cast a final glance around the room and noticed the pastries Hilda had left on the table. I devoured them quickly, not even tasting them. It was time to go.