Vin said nothing about the boy. Judging by the absence of direct questions, it seemed likely his actions had been concealed by the strangeness of the tree and the events surrounding it.
Aletha frowned. "Isn't that too much of a coincidence?" Her tone was skeptical, and Vin couldn't blame her. Even she wouldn't have accepted such a weak answer if their roles were reversed. But what else could she say? Telling the truth would only ensure the boy was hunted and purged.
"Perhaps it was just a strange coincidence," Vin replied evenly.
"That's—"
"I suppose it's possible," the Invigilator interrupted, silencing Aletha with a glance. His rank far exceeded theirs, second only to the doctor in authority.
Vin's eyes flicked to the doctor, silently questioning his presence in the conversation. But she quickly dismissed the thought. With the Invigilator present, nothing inappropriate would occur.
The Invigilator gave them both a pointed look. "This matter is not to be discussed further by either of you." His tone brooked no argument.
Vin inclined her head respectfully, though her mind rebelled. She had no intention of fully obeying the order. Yes, it went against her duty as a cog in the Empire, but something about this—about the boy—compelled her to pursue the matter further. It felt instinctive, undeniable.
A sudden, sharp pain lanced through her side, and Vin groaned softly, clutching her ribs.
The doctor moved quickly, needle in hand, but Vin instinctively recoiled. Her reaction was nearly violent—her first thought was to slam her against the wall. She stopped herself just in time, remembering the Invigilator's watchful presence. Instead, she waved the doctor off and swung her legs over the bed, staggering to her feet despite the protest of her body.
I need to return to base. There was too much happening in Canen to delay. From the thieving guild's attack to the strange faction responsible for birthing children, everything seemed to be converging. Could this be connected to the Maw? she wondered. They've been acting strangely lately.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the Invigilator's voice. "How exactly did you stop the enemy, and what happened?"
Didn't he just forbid discussing this? Vin frowned but complied. Retrieving her rapier, she began to recount the events. "After discovering the veil concealing the heretic, I used distortion to break through and confronted the enemy."
"Distortion?" The Invigilator's gaze sharpened. "A power from the Strange-Faced Pitcher branch?"
"Yes," Vin confirmed. "When the veil broke, I discovered the driver giving birth."
The Invigilator's expression darkened at her words. Understandable. Heretics capable of forcing men to give birth were an abomination to everything the Empire stood for.
Vin continued, "The woman did something that transformed the space into a barren land with a strange tree made of flesh and blood. Her powers didn't match any of the 19 known branches or even the incomplete ones I've studied." She hesitated. "Which means..."
"It's a hidden branch, perhaps recently formed," the Invigilator finished. His voice was calm, but his words carried weight. After a pause, he glanced at Aletha. "Leave us, Captain."
Aletha stiffened but didn't argue. As a garrison captain, she had no authority to remain. With a curt nod, she left the room.
"Continue," the Invigilator commanded.
Vin hesitated briefly before resuming. "The space was filled with the cries of a child, and those sounds weakened me. They seemed to purge my components, but I can't be sure if it was the child or the nature of the space itself. In any case, I fought the woman and, as a last resort, used an experimental potion from the SS0. Its effects mimicked purification."
The Invigilator raised a brow at this revelation.
Vin inwardly cursed herself. Why did I say that? If the potion was investigated, it could raise unnecessary questions. Then she remembered: the Invigilator had no jurisdiction over SS0 matters. She forced herself to remain calm.
After a moment of contemplation, the Invigilator sighed. "That will be all." Without another word, he and the doctor left.
Vin exhaled in relief, alone at last. The boy... the gathering... I'll find them. But first, I need to interrogate that man.
---------
Aletha sighed as she walked along the cobblestone road toward her carriage. The garrison awaited her return, but her mind lingered on how guardsmen were treated as inferior to soldiers.
A figure approached—a middle-aged man in a white coat buttoned to the left, with black extensions reaching his knees to shield against the dust. His black hair was neatly combed, and his beard trimmed to precision.
He bowed. "Pure to you, Captain. My name is Bethel."
----------
Karl unlocked the door to his room, stepping inside. The space was neat, with a desk lined with books on one side and a well-made bed on the other. His attention, however, was drawn to the door on the right—the bathroom. The scent of blood and dirt clung to him like a second skin.
As he moved toward the bathroom, a stray piece of paper caught his eye, pinned beneath a book on the desk. Frowning, he leaned over and picked it up.
"Master," the note began, and Karl immediately recognized the sender.
"There are clothes and other necessities prepared for you. I apologize for my absence, but I've been assigned to investigate the missing candidates. You'll be among those sent to save them."
Candidates? Karl's brow furrowed. Could this be tied to Shaman Olmer? Is he the one responsible for the kidnappings?
He continued reading.
"The Maw's relation with storms suggests the Shaman is likely a Sanguine with storm-related powers. However, it's confirmed he is not above the Desolation class."
Karl stiffened. Which means he's at least Special class. How am I supposed to deal with someone like that?
He summoned his Face of the Soul, gazing at its shimmering lights. As expected, it offered no answers. He dismissed it with a sigh. I miss the white flames.
His hand brushed the syringe in his pocket. Should I risk evolving? No. Without grace to bind it, the attempt would be reckless.
Finishing the note, Karl folded it, placed it on his tongue, chewed, and swallowed. Divination could trace even a scrap of paper, and he wouldn't risk leaving evidence.
He glanced around the room once more before heading into the bathroom.
As water washed over him, mingling with blood and black soot, he felt a fleeting unease.
Karl sighed as he donned the clothes left for him, presumably by Anette—a white coat with buttons running along the left side and a pair of black trousers.
Afterward, he tidied himself up, combing his hair and brushing his teeth. The "toothbrush" was nothing more than a stick with soft bristles, and the only toothpaste available was a handful of salt. The experience was primitive, uncomfortable, but functional.
Once finished, Karl spent a few hours poring over books written in Canenese. His thoughts drifted as he considered his priorities.
The Mason Hotel needs my attention. Yesterday's events had stirred tensions, and if left unchecked, some might seize the opportunity to take back what he had claimed. That, he didn't want.
He sat on the edge of the soft bed, staring at the gray walls. Then again, the gathering could offer valuable insights—possibly even mystical knowledge that might aid my pursuits.
He sighed deeply. What I need is power. The gathering will always be there, but the hotel might not. That's what I need to prioritize.
Glancing around the room, Karl pulled a small gun from his pouch. He paced, searching for a place to hide it. Carrying such an impractical weapon was a liability—it lacked ammunition and could do little more than slow him down.
After an exhaustive search, he opted to stash it under the bed. Crude, but it would suffice for now.
The key to his room ensured a layer of security, and no one could track him without special means. There was always the option of summoning Fredrick to take the weapon; perhaps Fredrick would even provide more bullets. But Karl wasn't in the mood to eat a finger today. The voicestone could work, but he preferred to save it for more urgent matters.
Satisfied with his decision, Karl left the room, locking the door behind him.
----
Jean chose the red dress, her favorite color, for no particular reason. She didn't care how the rest of the city viewed her unconventional choice. Nobles could whisper all they liked; Jean was not one to be swayed by their opinions.
Tonight, she was heading to a ball—not one hosted by nobility, but an event thrown by a theater to celebrate the signing of a new singer. As for the singer's identity? She couldn't care less. Theaters were places where men gathered to gawk and hope for fleeting indulgence. Most were inexperienced fools anyway.
A footman opened the carriage door, and Jean gave him a casual smile, releasing a faint hint of charm. Just enough to fog his mind. The man staggered slightly but quickly steadied himself—a surprising show of resilience. Perhaps he'd been subjected to such powers before.
Not a Sanguine, Jean noted, but who knows what else he might be?
Shrugging off the thought, she took his hand and stepped down, smoothing the folds of her dress. She half-hoped for a random tear to expose a sliver of skin, but the high-quality garment—borrowed from a boutique she had no intention of revisiting—held firm.
Jean followed the throng of tycoons and nobles into the theater. Despite its function, the establishment was housed in an old keep, a structure reinforced with guardsmen for security. Supposedly, the keep had belonged to the Adeiheid family before they sold it in desperation.
The Adeiheids. What a laughable bunch. The memory barely lingered before she dismissed it entirely. The keep was unimpressive, smaller even than... the Ventures. Jean's lip curled at the comparison.
To distract herself, she imagined rows of noble heads impaled on spikes, drained of energy as she ascended to become a Lady of Bliss. The thought sent a shiver of pleasure down her spine.
As she entered, she noticed the other women wore high-heeled shoes, a sharp contrast to her simple sandals.
"Should I have borrowed a pair too?" she murmured, mostly to herself.
A faint skittering sensation rippled within her. Susan.
"Yeah, I know," Jean muttered under her breath. "I'm not trying to be a noble, and I don't plan to become one either."
She straightened her posture, taking in the room. Now, let's see what I can find to keep me warm tonight.
The squat ballroom loomed ahead, its stage covered by a pure white curtain that stretched up to the towering ceiling. Eternal lamps burned on either side, their light illuminating the grand pillars—each wide enough to hide three men behind them and taller than anything Jean had ever seen.
Long tables draped in pristine white cloth lined the room's edges, and servants bustled about, arranging unique chairs in the center. The atmosphere buzzed with anticipation. So, who is this mysterious singer anyway? Jean mused, though her interest was fleeting.
A servant escorted her to a table near the outskirts of the room. She settled into her seat, her presence attracting curious glances from nearby men. Some seemed entranced by her beauty, others perhaps swayed by the subtle charm she exuded.
But Jean remained unimpressed. Most of the men had already indulged in countless women and thus failed to meet her specific criteria.
Purity. Always so rare.
She crossed her legs, letting her gaze wander as she waited for something—or someone—worth her time.