The second-floor study of the villa was eerily quiet, save for the occasional creak of the branches that had transformed Ash into something resembling a forest monument. The tree imprisoning him had grown sturdy and unyielding, each branch hard as steel and each leaf drawing away his remaining sorcery like a parasitic siphon.
This was no ordinary miracle of the Sylvan School, which typically focused on growth and production. It was aggressive and deadly, a composite of multiple sorcery spirits, combining restraint, lethality, and suppression into one terrifying creation.
Shillin, now over two centuries old and a two-winged sorcerer, was a reflection of what time could do in a world where effort alone meant little. Talent and opportunity were the true gates to ascendancy. For someone like him, time wasn't merely an ally; it was a vast reservoir of experiences and resources, polished into power over the decades.
For Ash, however, time was no ally. It was a ticking clock, and the relentless pursuit of the Scourge Bureau was already closing in. The safe haven he'd found in Freya's home had become a trap, a place where his story might very well end.
He had gambled everything on Shillin. The elf professor was his only lead, the only chance to gather the information he needed to escape Bloodmoon's suffocating grip.
Ash exhaled slowly, his eyelids drooping as though in resignation, yet his voice was sharp and commanding:
"So, have you made your decision, Professor Shillin?"
Shillin circled him like a predator assessing its prey, his muttered words barely audible.
"With Heath gone, I am no longer bound to him. I'm free now—free to act as I see fit. But your existence… it's a threat, an unbearable reminder that Heath could one day return, dragging with him an ocean of blood and ruin."
"But you won't kill me," Ash interjected with a calm certainty. "Not now. Not after realizing I'm not Heath. In fact, you have every reason to keep me alive."
Ash's deduction was cold and precise. If Shillin truly believed he was Heath, then obedience to Heath's command would compel him to attempt murder. But if Shillin understood he wasn't, there was no longer a reason to kill him.
Some might think Shillin would act out of hatred, seeking vengeance against anything remotely connected to Heath. But Shillin wasn't driven by vengeance.
He was driven by fear.
"That's correct," Shillin admitted, stopping just behind Ash. His voice trembled with unease.
"If Heath wanted you dead, then you must stay alive—barely alive if necessary, even in unimaginable suffering, but alive nonetheless."
"Do you know why Heath wanted me dead?" Ash asked, his voice steady, probing.
"I don't," Shillin replied, stepping closer. "But the fact that you're so frail, so ignorant, so incomplete can only mean one thing."
He pointed a finger at Ash's forehead.
"You're unfinished. You're not the complete 'Touch.' You're merely a half-formed fragment of what Heath intended."
Ash stared at the accusing finger.
"What is 'Touch'? And what happens if I die?"
"I don't know!" Shillin's voice cracked as he gripped his hair in frustration. "That knowledge belongs to the secrets of the Four Pillars God. Only Heath knew the full scope of the ritual! All he told the congregation was this: when the ritual is complete, he will return from suffering, shed the chains of honor, rise from the grave, and descend from the heavens. He will become the ultimate 'Touch' and paint the world as he pleases!"
"So, if I die…" Ash smirked faintly. "I become something greater, perhaps even surpassing the mythical Four-Winged Sorcerers? Sounds tempting."
Shillin's glare was icy.
"I won't let that happen."
"And what now?" Ash asked, his tone almost mocking. "Will you turn me over to the Scourge Bureau?"
"Never. Gerard might kill you on the spot. The Bloodmoon trial would surely end your life as well. No, you cannot fall into their hands," Shillin said, shaking his head as if trying to clear away swarming flies. "The arrogant Blood Saints would only dissect you for their experiments. The obstinate Moonshades wouldn't care if you lived or died. Only I… only I understand the gravity of what you represent."
His voice dropped to a chilling whisper.
"So I'll sever your limbs, lock you in a marionette box, and bury you deep within my basement. I'll feed you through tubes, just enough to keep you breathing."
Ash remained utterly still, his gaze impassive. Shillin's decision didn't surprise him—it even aligned with his expectations. The professor wouldn't dare hand him over to the Scourge Bureau, and Ash wasn't afraid of physical disfigurement. He had learned to detach from his body, understanding that the true path to freedom lay within the mind.
His chance to escape would come during transit, when Shillin inevitably tried to move him. Until then, Ash would wait, as still and silent as the tree that confined him.
In the worst-case scenario, he'd endure confinement in a basement. Stripped of movement, left with nothing but the echo of his heartbeat in a world devoid of sensation. Even that didn't unsettle him.
Ash viewed his fate with eerie detachment, as though watching the plight of another.
Pain, isolation, torment—they mean nothing to me.
Because in my world…
In my world…
…there is still the Swordmaiden.
The thought struck like a lightning bolt, dragging Ash from his trance. His pupils dilated, and the numbness that had gripped him dissipated, replaced by sharp clarity.
He was no longer adrift in apathy.
Shillin's muttering broke the silence. "Shillin Dol, you can't run anymore. You're free now. No more excuses."
The elf reached into a drawer, retrieving a sleek ebony dagger. He approached Ash with deliberate steps, turned the blade downward…
…and plunged it into his own throat.