Amora heard Bart sharply inhale, a reaction that betrayed his shock. Though he was no stranger to death, witnessing a military mage nonchalantly execute an innocent maid was overwhelming. Slowe's action wasn't rushed; the maid had paused in confusion before he struck. But his movements were eerily smooth—from constructing the spell to its execution—killing seemed as natural to him as drinking water.
Bart, unprepared for this sudden violence, stood frozen. Amora, too, was caught off guard; one moment she had lowered her gaze, and the next, she looked up to find a lifeless body sprawled before her.
Conner, frowning, stepped forward. He lifted a corner of the opulent carpet and folded it over the maid's headless corpse, neatly concealing it. The thick, luxurious fur absorbed the blood and gore, leaving behind only a vaguely humanoid bulge, devoid of the visceral horror. From his pocket, Conner produced a white handkerchief, meticulously cleaning his hands with an unsettling grace that bordered on cruelty.
Turning to Slowe, Conner said, "See to their accommodations first."
Slowe adjusted his glasses and moved past the wheelchair toward the center of the room. "I'd prefer to secure your accommodations first," he replied.
Amora lowered her gaze again, her attention caught by the faint silver glow of a magic circle forming beneath Slowe's feet. The array's structure was stark and precise, its components radiating soft, silvery light. For a brief second, it resembled a slowly turning galaxy, but the moment the spell completed, it darkened completely.
In that fleeting second, Amora glimpsed an inverted cross at the circle's center.
A guttural roar broke the silence. The grotesque beast-shaped floor lamp by the bed flickered twice before turning crimson. Its bloated form began to expand, accompanied by labored, bestial breathing. Thick saliva dripped audibly onto the floor, sickeningly visceral in the dim room. The beast had come to life, the lightbulb in its maw transforming into a glowing red crystal. Its claws extended onto the carpet, flattening the bulge left by the corpse.
Amora and Bart remained silent, while Conner looked on with a mix of revulsion and disdain, wiping his hands more vigorously as if the creature's drool offended him personally.
The black horse neighed in fright, drawing the creature's attention. Its empty, soulless eyes locked onto the horse, freezing it in terror. Another flash of the silver magic circle at Slowe's feet, and the beast obediently retreated to its place by the bed. Its crystal reverted to a lightbulb, and it stood still once more, indistinguishable from a normal lamp.
"All done," Slowe declared, sliding a finger through the air. The carpet reverted to its pristine state, spotless and unblemished, as though the gruesome events had never occurred. He turned back to the group. Bart had stepped back several paces, pale-faced, while Amora silently attempted to reconstruct Slowe's magic circle using God's Domain.
Conner discarded his handkerchief onto the bedside table. "This room needs to be cleaned. I can smell death."
"That's merely your imagination," Slowe replied, indifferent. "The corpse has been completely dealt with. You can take a bath, change into something comfortable, and relax with a book while entertaining the officials' well-wishes."
"No, there's always a lingering smell when someone dies, no matter how thorough the cleaning," Conner retorted, his smile laced with malice. "Take you, for instance—the stench of death clings to you, impossible to erase."
"If you're going to insult me, at least consider who keeps cleaning up your messes," Slowe shot back, his tone cold. "Oh, and tonight, I'll visit you—through the front door this time." He placed a hand on the wheelchair and began guiding Amora toward the magical door in the wall. "Mr. Bart, you'd better come with us. This room isn't safe for you to stay in."
Bart quickly followed, leading the black horse, as the magical door slowly closed behind them.
"An artificial spirit formation… That was my first time seeing one," Amora said, glancing at Bart's uneasy expression out of the corner of her eye. She understood his concerns—if this cold-blooded mage decided to deal with them in secret, it would spell disaster. Hoping to lighten the tension, she struck up a conversation with Slowe.
Pushing her wheelchair steadily, Slowe replied, "That was a Rotting Stone Fiend. In its dormant state, it serves as a decorative object, like a statue. It rapidly decomposes matter and accelerates oxidation. Normally, the duke uses it as a trash bin, feeding items into its maw. It processes them into pure oxygen and requires periodic residue cleanups. Completely reducing a corpse to basic elements, as it just did, consumes significant energy."
Amora had initially thought of the creature as a glorified air purifier. Learning about its grisly mechanism left her unnerved. Witnessing its grotesque form as it processed the body earlier, she had felt an overwhelming sense of malevolence—evil beyond description.
While magical systems have no inherent superiority, artificial spirit formations are undeniably advanced, often involving elements of artificial intelligence. These formations construct intricate, powerful creature-like shells and simulate human logic via magical algorithms, creating beings that mimic life. The pinnacle of materialization magic, artificial spirits "materialize thought." Though the "thoughts" are synthetic—merely computational outputs—their complexity could someday rival human intellect as magical technology progresses.
Seeing the Rotting Stone Fiend in action, radiating unrestrained malice, had deeply unsettled Amora. It seemed to possess an unsettlingly complete "mind," likely influenced by its caster's personality—revealing that Slowe was far from the affable and kind figure he appeared to be.
By the time Amora emerged from her thoughts, Slowe had guided them back to the ship. He steered it away from the duke's castle, anchoring at the mouth of a nearby stream. Handing Bart an envelope, he said, "The duke's estate is currently problematic, so we won't be staying there for now. This is a letter from me. Take it to the local security office, and they'll help you reissue identification documents and arrange accommodations. The office is beside the central monument—you should be able to see it from here. It's the tallest structure in the area. We may reach out to you later for information about the disaster zone. Until the military officially intervenes, I'd appreciate your discretion."
Bart exhaled a deep sigh of relief, quickly thanking Slowe, though his gaze lingered on Amora.
"Don't worry about me," Amora said with a reassuring smile. "Professor Slowe is my guardian now."
Which is precisely why I'm worried, Bart thought, suppressing a nervous shiver. Under Slowe's calm yet oppressive gaze, he led the black horse off the ship. Before disembarking, he turned back to Amora and said, "If anything happens… don't hesitate to reach out to me."
Sitting in the wheelchair, Amora maintained a composed smile, betraying no emotion. "I will. Thank you."
Soon, the ship was left with only two passengers: Amora and Slowe.
Slowe remained silent for a while, lost in thought. Amora, curious, asked, "What's on your mind?"
"I'm thinking how challenging it is to raise a daughter," Slowe replied, steering the boat toward the west side of the city. "You'll need pretty dresses, dolls, and a bedroom painted pink… No wonder Menger bought himself a girl slave."
"…Who told you I need those things?" Surely it wasn't Menger!
All Amora wanted was a private, independent space. Nothing more.
"It's just my assumption," Slowe said matter-of-factly. "If it were a boy, I wouldn't care what he did. But girls require careful treatment. Dressing up a little girl to look like an angel brings an unparalleled sense of accomplishment."
No, Amora thought, that's probably a feeling only you would have.
Sitting obediently in her wheelchair, Amora debated whether to decline Slowe's well-intentioned offer of a pink bedroom. Meanwhile, Slowe piloted the boat with ease, using the same method as before to carve an underground path into his residence. After they left, the boat began to drift along the canal, its final destination unknown.
The underwater path led into Slowe's study. The room was filled with books neatly arranged in various languages, their titles deep and esoteric. The study itself was unremarkable—lacking the eccentric aesthetic of the duke's castle and the intricate magical devices of Menger's old home. It felt like the home of an ordinary person, save for the obscure subject matter of the books.
"Surprised?" Slowe asked as he closed the magical door and sat behind his desk, drumming his fingers while watching Amora.
Amora nodded. "This doesn't feel like a soldier's home at all."
It carried a refreshing and meticulous vibe, completely different from the rough and tough style one might expect from the military.
"Perhaps because I'm more scholar than soldier?" Slowe smiled. "Well, this is just my residence in Flinn County. My property in the capital is more in line with the military aesthetic."
"Where will I stay?" Amora cut straight to the point.
"There are guest rooms upstairs. Feel free to pick one," Slowe said, resting his head on his hand. "But with your injuries, it's inconvenient to use a wheelchair on the stairs. You can stay in the master bedroom downstairs, and I'll move to a guest room."
This guy's thoughtfulness was almost alarming.
"No, that's too much trouble for you," Amora quickly declined.
"Alright, then I'll have an automatic lift installed tomorrow," Slowe decided. "And your pink bedroom, of course."
Amora cringed at the mention of the pink bedroom again but forced a polite smile.
"Finding trustworthy servants is tricky right now, so I'll have someone transferred from the Nightmare Corps. And yes, your wardrobe does need updating," Slowe added.
"Thank you…" Amora said, once again confronted with the dreadful prospect of a pink bedroom.
"She's already on her way," Slowe said, adjusting his glasses as he pushed Amora's wheelchair to the master bedroom. The room was as simple as the study, with no discernible style other than its cleanliness. Opening the curtains revealed a bright and airy space.
"Anything else you need?" Slowe asked kindly.
"Nothing, thank you," Amora said, her gratitude sincere. "Although a bookshelf would be nice."
"I'll let the enthusiastic young lady know," Slowe said, looking slightly preoccupied. "I need to head to the duke's estate to sort out some issues. When I return, I'll take care of your ID and my guardianship documents."
Efficient and reliable—no wonder the duke trusted him so completely.
"The lady coming to assist is named Page. She's a recent graduate and a new member of the Magical Corps. If you need anything, feel free to ask her," Slowe instructed before leaving. "And wait for me to set your bones properly. Avoid strenuous movement, or there won't be a pink bedroom for you."
For the first time in her life, Amora experienced such meticulous care. It would have been perfect—if only there were no mention of a pink bedroom.