Several months had passed since Claude's conversation with Zal. Claude stood in a special chamber deep within Qasr-e-Vehem. The room was a combination of a prison and a laboratory. Lined with cold stone walls interspersed with cells.
The air carried a faintly metallic tang, mingling with the aroma of potions brewing on cluttered workbenches. Glass vials, strange herbs, and various tools lay scattered amidst a dim, flickering light.
Before Claude knelt a dishevelled, pudgy excuse of a man. His skin was slightly tanned with tousled hair falling over his hollow, terror-stricken eyes. The man gasped for breath, his voice trembling.
"P-Please!" He stammered, his words were both disjointed and frantic. "I-I don't want to die! I…"
His voice faltered as a glimmer of hope ignited in his gaze. A nervous chuckle escaped his lips. "Yes! Lord Mage! I am a Baron of Francia! If you let me go, I can give you my land, my wealth… anything!"
Claude did not respond. His expression blank. But, the Baron took no heed of this and continued, desperation tightening his voice. "Gold! Jewels! I—I can offer you alliances! Power beyond your imagination! Just… just spare me!"
Nevertheless, Claude's retained his silence. He already knew the man's identity. Leonard Moreau, Baron of Francia and former city magistrate of Littorbourg.
The Inquisition had rooted him out during their sweep of the city after confirming his ties to the Plague Bearers. Now, the once-proud noble grovelled at Claude's feet, reduced to this pitiful state.
Yet, Claude took no pride in the situation. Instead, he raised a finger and lightly touched Leonard's forehead. The effect was immediate. Leonard's eyelids drooped, his body sagging as fatigue overtook him.
Binding Dream. This was the third spell Claude had inherited from Raymond, which targeted the various mechanisms within the human body. Once cast, it dulls the senses of the target, coaxing the mind into a state of fatigue.
Leonard swayed, his breaths growing shallow and uneven. Claude retrieved a small green vial from a nearby table and handed it to the man.
"Drink," he commanded curtly.
Barely conscious, Leonard grasped the vial with trembling hands and tipped it back. The bitter liquid burned his throat, drawing a gagging cough. He clutched at his neck, his face contorting in discomfort. But within moments, vitality began surging back into his limbs, yet he remained hunched over.
"Heugh—!" Leonard's relief was short-lived. Before he could gather himself, Claude's palm pressed firmly against his head once more. The same spell was cast, but this time, the effect was nullified. Leonard's mental energy had been replenished, keeping his mind active despite his body's protests.
Satisfied, Claude released him, letting the Baron's head drop to his chest. He walked to the desk in the corner of the room and picked up a sleek pen—a recent innovation of Elysium. The pen, made from steel and fitted with a reservoir for ink, had replaced the cumbersome quills of the past.
Claude began to write:
Experiment #37
Observations: The subject displayed identical reactions to the previous eleven trials. Potion effectively restored physical and mental vitality within moments of ingestion. No adverse effects have been observed in this or recent subjects.
Notes: Preliminary results suggest the potion's efficacy for short-term recovery remains consistent. Further testing is required to determine long-term implications.
Claude glanced over his shoulder at the other prisoners. They huddled in their cells, their eyes wide with fear, flinching whenever his gaze fell upon them.
'This should suffice,' he thought, closing his notebook. Yet, as he saw the other prisoners, the initial failures of his experiments lingered in his mind—subjects who were reduced to hollow shells, their minds irreparably damaged despite their bodies remaining alive. It was only after several visits to the library and careful study that he had refined the formula to its current state.
Claude had honestly expected to find more aversion to these actions in him, but, he felt nothing. Like when he killed those cultists in Littorbourg. He should have felt something. And, yet, no spark of humanity or compassion was ever reflected in his thoughts.
Shaking his head, Claude focused on the topic at hand. The potion had little practical application for apprentices. Their limited lifespan and focus on amassing knowledge rendered replacing mental energy unnecessary. Instead of practicing spells they would rather try and advance to Official Mage as soon as possible.
"Official Mage…" he murmured, his words hanging in the air. The past months had seen his mental energy grow steadily, reaching the peak of what an apprentice could achieve. Now, he stood on the cusp of a metamorphosis. The books he had pored over in the library already hinted at what was to happen now.
Transcendence.
The moment when an apprentice's mental energy transcended its limits and they transformed into Official Mages. He ran a hand through his hair, his mind racing. For Claude, advancement was more than a milestone. It was a necessity. Only as an Official Mage could he continue his research, gain more power and uncover the secrets of the Subspace Network.
And… immortality.
He would be one step closer. Turning his back on the cells, Claude snapped his notebook shut. Without a word, he exited the chamber and closed the door. The echoes of his footsteps fading into the halls of Qasr-e-Vehem.
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Claude walked through the bustling streets of Elysium. Merchants hawked wares, apprentices hurried with scrolls in hand, and the city's architecture stood tall and gleaming under the midday sun. Elysium seemed like a paradise at first glance.
A sanctuary of knowledge. A bastion of hope. A ladder to power and immortality. And, in some ways, it was true—at least for someone like him. But the longer he stayed, the more he learnt. The more he understood the city's true nature.
Knowledge.
It was obsessed with knowledge. Claude had expected this, of course. For Mages, knowledge was power, the cornerstone of their existence. Yet even he had underestimated the extent of their devotion. The moment that cemented this realisation was when he contacted Zal, asking what he ought to do with the corpses from his earlier experiments.
Only three words were given as a reply.
"Dispose of them."
Those words did not stir guilt or shock in Claude—he felt none—but rather a cold realisation of the lengths to which Elysium's scholars would go. They sought knowledge; free from the constraints of society and morality.
'But it's not like this is a problem for me,' Claude thought, a fleeting smile crossing his face before fading. 'If this is their way, I will only grow faster.'
As for the subjects of his experiments? He felt no remorse.
Most had been criminals, cultists, and the like. The few who might have been falsely accused—were not of his concern. Claude's empathy, what little remained of it, had long since withered. He had seen too much in his brief twenty-something years to entertain such luxuries.
Power. Immortality. These were the only goals worth pursuing. To that end, everything else—and everyone else—was meaningless.
As Claude manoeuvred through the crowd, snippets of conversation drifted to his ears. "They say a nobleman in Tarsis was found in a canal near his home, his throat slit," muttered a grizzled merchant, adjusting his cap as he loaded crates onto a wagon.
Merchants in Elysium were a common sight. Most were directly recruited by Elysium or were the offspring of mages with little to no talent in magic. After all, Elysium had to find a way to gather its own resources.
Beside the merchant was a wiry man with sharp features, who grunted in response. "That's the fifth one this season," the man replied. "That Assur's getting dangerous, even for the highborn. These cultists sure are bold, taking a life under the gaze of them royals." Claude's pace slowed. He turned his head slightly, his ears catching every word.
"Highborn or not," the grizzled merchant continued, his voice low, "no one's safe. Rumours say the Brotherhood of Silence is back."
"Bah!" the wiry man spat, waving dismissively. "The Inquisition crushed them years ago after that person had joined them. Burned their dens to ash. This is just some other gang trying to scare folk."
Nearby, a pair of apprentices hurried past, their robes trailing behind them as they whispered urgently.
"Did you hear about Marduk?" one asked, a pale-faced boy clutching a stack of scrolls.
"The apprentice who got ambushed?" the other responded, her voice tinged with unease.
The boy nodded, his expression grim. "They say it was the Plague Bearers. They've grown bolder, striking even at mages."
A woman selling roasted chestnuts interjected, her voice loud enough to draw the attention of passersby. "Bold, you say? Stupid is more like it. The Inquisition's already hunting them down. They'll hang before the week's out, mark my words!"
"But the cultists keep coming back," a bystander added, shaking his head. "You'd think they'd learn their lesson by now. No one defies Elysium and lives to tell the tale."
"Maybe they don't care about living," another chimed in. "The Plague Bearers worship decay and death. Their whole creed is about bringing the end, not avoiding it."
The chestnut seller scoffed, tossing a handful of hot nuts into a paper cone. "Then they're fools. And fools don't last long in this world."
Elsewhere, another pair of apprentices were engaging in a heated spat. "...but I'm telling you, the research of Elysium is unparalleled," one argued, adjusting his glasses.
"Unparalleled? Are you blind?" his companion countered, her arms crossed. "Do you know what they do to their subjects? I heard—"
"Enough!" the first scholar snapped, his face flushing. "Knowledge demands sacrifice. The beauty of magic is clearly lost on you. If you're unwilling to pay the price, your path as a mage may as well be considered done before it has even begun."
The woman's face darkened, but she said nothing more. As Claude walked on, his mind replayed the snippets of conversation. The fear in their voices, the anger, the resignation—it all helped paint a vivid picture of Elysium's underbelly. A city built on knowledge, yes, but also sacrifice.
'Power...' He mused.
It was a fickle little thing. Coveted by all, but understood by few. And as he turned a corner, disappearing into the maze of streets, he couldn't help but feel that he was closer to grasping it than most.
Official Mage. It was within his reach.