The lump of flesh on the table moved at will, much like the lessons once experienced. With a sharp blade, an incision was made, revealing the truth buried beneath the flesh and blood. The life that surged through the blood vividly and the will that struggled at the broken bone's edge.
None of these emerged from the mass of flesh before Lyle, which resembled a red bun that was the same inside out, lacking the intricate construction of a human body—it was merely a facade, a layer of skin driven by Magic Power.
It would not tell us the truth; it needed us to shape its truth. Lyle set down the gleaming silver knife, his black gloves dirtied by blood. Even with the cover of herbs, one could still smell a faint hint of rust.
Looking at his own palms, made clumsy by the gloves, Lyle adopted the caution he had used in past experiments.
"Nia."
